Tramping in Aragorn's Footsteps

Let me try to explain a feeling. 

The feeling chemically is probably a good mix of dopamine and oxytocin and most certainly lots of other intricacies that myself and likely others don't even know about. 

It's the feeling I get when work is going well, friends are plentiful and reliable, physical and mental health are synced and then here is Bill and we embrace after a long day and with the skin-to-skin contact my muscles relax and melt and there's a small Mona Lisa smile without trying. The feeling that the world feels right in that instant. That doubts and confusion don't seem to exist and that everything is so completely right that it's hard to even imagine the concepts of doubt and confusion. My energies line up with all the other energies in my sphere and there is a sense that I've got it figured out and that this is how I'm meant to be. Life makes sense. This feeling is sometimes so poignancy beautiful that I've been known to get glassy-eyed just knowing how fortunate I am to be able to have this feeling. 

So THAT feeling - one typically reserved for relationship harmony - was experienced when I walked over a saddle and my eyes fell upon Lake Harris. I didn't even know I could feel this way about nature. We think we might name our first born Harris. 

Let me start from the first day.

Day 1: we slept in The Ark at Kinloch campground and received some incredible beta from an experienced French couple. The French and the German (and sometimes the Dutch) are amazing for travel tips! 

We drove 30 minutes on a dirt road and dropped our packs in some bushes at Greenstone-Caples trailhead. Then we drove 30k the other direction to the trail end for the Routeburn track and left our car there. Then we walked back in the direction of our packs. This is actually brilliant and we are still patting ourselves on the back for how smart we are. After about 10k a nice British doctor picked us up and took us the rest of the way to Greenstone-Caples trail head where our packs waited for us.

 

 6 hours more of walking through mossy forests and glacial stream beds with jagged peaks on either side and turquoise  water carving the canyon deeper and we arrived at Greenstone Hut. 

 

The hut was SO full that we actually ended up pitching our tent outside (to avoid snorers - and there are many) but got to play an Israeli card game inside with some kiwis and some Americans. 

Later that night I found a possum in our tent. They're like honey badgers. They do not give a fuck. Not a one! 

Day 2: 

We walked six more hours through the same riverbed to McKellar hut and arrived in time to sunbathe in the evening alpinglow - and again surreptitiously move our bedding into the kitchen to avoid snorers in the bunks. Honestly, snorers, can we have an intervention? You must know you snore. And if you sound like a train or like you're stuck in a plastic bag then you ought to self select yourself out of these group sleeping situations, okay? You need to sleep in a tent. It's so selfish. Honestly. I'm talking to you elderly Frenchman! You know who you are.

Day 3: 

Alarm is off at 6am and we are dialed. Out the door in 35 minutes (and had time for a cuppa!) and on the trail before the sun has a chance to wake the valley up. We arrive to a parking lot next to the Te Anau-Milford Highway and are successful in hitching a ride from a group of Kiwi and Aussie girls in a motor home. Protip: if you are trying to hitchhike it is best if you are a woman. Everyone feels more sorry for you and also feels like you're less likely to be a serial killer. If you happen to not be a woman, go hide in the bushes and get the woman to stand on the road. Then pop out at the right moment while the disappointed humanitarians acquiesce to providing transport for two people. One venue of life where being a woman is superior. 

We arrived to Milford Sound at 11am and had 2 hours to eat a scone and bask in our own foul body odor. At 2pm we boarded a jet boat and took a fabulous ride to the end of the sound where the Tasman Sea begins and goes on forever. 

Milford is actually a glacially carved fiord and is magical. My best description is that it is a mixture of Yosemite granite walls mixed with Hawaiian rainforested mountains and then all filled in with ocean in the middle. Waterfalls cascade from every nook and crack in the walls. Rainbows dance off the mist and sea birds dive around you. The sea smells clean. The water sparkles with flecks of glacial sand mixed into the ocean rollers. 

By sundown we are back at the harbor and a newlywed couple from Dunedin give us a ride back to the trailhead. We walk 2.5 hours in the dusk-dark and arrive to our campsite by 10:30pm. After pitching our tent and dinner we finally lay down at midnight. It was an epic day. 

  

Day 4: 

We slept in until almost 10am.  Because we deserve it!

The weather was perfect. We day hiked up to an unnamed peak with 360 degree views of snow capped peaks surrounding us in every direction. We both sat on our quiet summit, bounty of cashews and dates in hand, and had no words for the endless alpine beauty that we were privileged to see that day. 

 

 

Day 5: 

Big day. Real big day. We walked nearly 11 hours and over two passes. Today was the day that I felt like I was in Middle Earth. The craggy above treeline taiga mountain sides with misty clouds rushing past, mountain lakes that look like the Caribbean and deep valleys with rushing crystal rivers.  Finally we came to the last climb: Harris Saddle, and behind the dome of conical peak stood Harris Lake - glistening sapphire blue with vibrant mossy green hillsides and waterfalls blanketing the cliffs and connecting gently with the lake. The water was the bluest blue.  Moss the greenest green. The idyllic abundance struck me. My eyes welled up. My muscles got wobbly. I couldn't believe that I would have to leave this place. It was so overwhelmingly cosmically powerful to be there. The sense of rightness of time and place. Of synchronicity with Mother Earth and her powers that be. 

I will return to that lake. It has a hold on me. 

 

  

Day 6: 

We met some awesome veteran badasses from Telluride out celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary with crampons and ice axes. Another grand couple to aspire to be like. 

My Achilles was quite swollen on this morning so I rested at the hut and sewed the holes in our clothes and tent bag with a courtesy sewing kit I stole from our luxury hotel in Vietnam while Bill did a day walk up a side branch of the Routeburn River. Even in the wilderness I am so daintily domestic. 

We made it back to our car (where we conveniently left it 6 days prior) and got back to Glenorchy in time for beer and a scone at the Glenorchy Cafe. We slept under a bridge by the Dart River that night and fell asleep to wind and constant river currents. 

To date this is both Bill and my longest backpacking trip. We learned some good lessons and are prepping for another 6- day trip on the Young-Wilkin track after a few days of rest. Stay tuned for the next recap!

How to Cover Yourself in Mud and See Nothing : A Guide to Backpacking Stewart Island

Hey there, hiker! Are you looking for adventure? Are you looking for fun? Are you looking for 4 days of slogging through knee deep mud and puddles and never seeing a kiwi bird - the one thing you paid $135 on a ferry to see? Well then look no further than this recap of our trip to Mason Bay and back! 

Aside from the unparalleled joy of slicing into that hairy little green fruit while in New Zealand, there is no greater triumph than saying you saw a real kiwi bird in the wild while you're here in the magic flightless bird kingdom of The EnZed. It is the crown jewel. The holy grail. And there is *apparently* no better place to view these elusive nocturnal namesakes than on the feral swamp-jungle of Stewart Island. "New Zealand's third island" as they say. This island is mostly protected land and with only 400 inhabitants and a single port, most tourists don't venture further than a ferry ride from Oban, the main township which can be cased in 10 minutes.  Therefore, one is to assume that if you walk south as far from other people as you can that your chances of seeing a kiwi would go up exponentially. This is, of course, absolutely incorrect. But one would assume this. And by one I mean myself and Bill. 

 

Part of the fun comes from our woefully unpredictable frugality that is oddly paired with spontaneous extravagance (like won't pay $16 for a used book but will pay $135 for a ferry ride). You try and explain that to me. I certainly can't.  So in this schizo-frugal mindset we opted to walk 9 hours on our first day to the further Hut in order to save $44. 

Our ferry arrived to Oban at noon. Pro tip: When you are trying to save $44 and walk 9 hours in one day, it is best to not make any reservations ahead of time and instead show up to the ferry terminal at 8am in order to find out that the 9am ferry is booked. You are best served by then waiting for the 11am ferry so that you can maximize afternoon rough seas and spill hot (but free!) coffee on yourself during the ride and then during your 9 hour walk you are also threatened by impending darkness.  We walked 23 kilometers to our first hut called Freshwater Hut. There was a closer hut. Only 3 hours walk from Oban.  North Arm Hut: you know, the $44 hut. Totally unreasonably priced though so obviously we passed that money sucking pit of a hut up. 

Freshwater hut is also accessible by taking a speed boat from town and up the river so the hut can actually get crowded with over nighters who want to experience dirty hut life for 12 hours and then leave. We walked though. The first 3 hours were okay.  Muddy, yes, but manageable. A relatively well traveled trail and evidence that the Dept of Conservation (DOC aka NZ's National Park Service) had dug drainage systems and lugged bags of gravel to make the paths flat. As soon as we left the DOC maintained trails, it was a sloshy, rooty, wet, muddy mess. Six more hours of climbing over tree roots that ascend and decend at 45 degree angles to make natural stair cases and hand holds. Six more hours of soaking wet feet with sand and mud caked inside every seam of your socks and pants. Part of the trail a creek and most of it a swamp. 

I recommend Not trusting the logs you see strewn across a ravine of mud. They often sink or see saw upwards and cause you to lose balance and fall into the mud. I recommend surrendering immediately. What I mean by this is that if you're going to try to avoid puddles and mud sinks by jumping and dancing around them and hacking through the thick bush you are merely wasting time and prolonging the inevitable which is that you'll step on a rock or log that appears sound and then when it is not your foot will slip in a millisecond and send your turtle shell backpack weight backwards onto your butt in a soupy diarrhea-thick mush of thousand year old peat bog. No, I recommend you just immediately stop trying to preserve yourself and slog straight into that mud. Get after it early. Knee and ankle deep. Get it wedged so deep into your nail beds that 3 days and 2 showers later your nails still look black. Just let it happen to you. Let the mud lock up your shoelaces. Let your only pair of pants get saturated. Abandon your clean dry socks. Embrace the deep wrinkles on the soles of your feet. It's better for your psyche this way.

On the first night, after 9 hours of wet, soggy walking you will arrive at Freshwater hut feeling proud as a cat who has dropped a headless mouse at your feet. You've really accomplished something. Inside the hut a pot belly stove awaits. This is the best thing ever. You can hang your wet clothes up to dry. It's a cute idea. Seems real nice. But, your clothes will never really be dry. Not until you get back to Invercargill and do laundry. And then when you hang your clothes out on the line to dry, it will rain over night and you will be at square 1.

 

 

Now that you've assessed the stove and claimed a cot, it is time for a feast of kings. Hunger sauce abounds and covers your food like sauce. Because it is sauce. Yes in front of you are fabulously rehydrated instant mashed potatoes with chunks of unrefrigerated cheddar cheese smattered throughout. The feast of a king indeed. Sit quietly by candlelight and let that slightly unmelted hunk of cheese rest there on your tongue. The crystals of salt and fat dissolving finally onto the umami taste buds that sit anxiously between the sweet and sour buds which have been deprived of stimuli during this meal. You deserve it. 

Next, ease yourself into your slightly damp downy sleeping bag letting your moist skin stick to the nylon walls of your cocoon and appreciate the unique sounds of all 10 bunk mates as they entertain you, mouths agape with the chorus of the night. 

There are 20 kilometers tomorrow and 15 of them are through more joyous mud. 

The forest is dark and you will mostly have the opportunity to marvel at your shoelaces during this journey. Every glance up to catch a view of something through the trees will 98% of the time involve you mid calf deep in brown sticky oatmeal mud. 

At midday you'll arrive to glorious Mason Bay Hut. The furthest south you've ever been in the whole world. It is a feeling of helpless superiority like no other. Like what the explorers of the 1400s must have felt: I am the master of this great uninhabited land. The ocean is enormous and huge. The Tasman sea breaks great heaving waves onto the shore and smooths the river stones to perfectly round discs of grey and brown and stones yellow like  a wrinkleless apricot in the palm of your hand. The water is glowing tropical blue but you must wear a wool under layer and beanie to keep warm since the wind will never stop. Look out across the expanse of water and know that the next closest place you could land is Antarctica. Imagine that. 

 

The kiwi is a nocturnal bird. Best seen out noisily rummaging through dirt between 10pm-7am. 

At 9:20pm Bill and I run across the dunes to make it in the nick of time to watch the sun set on the Tasman. 

 

10 years ago Bill watched great waves crash on a Brazilian beach - alone- hoping someday to share the feeling of enormity and smallness that comes with balancing on the edge of a great ocean of discovery. Tonight we held hands in the surf as the Tasman rose and fell around our ankles watching the colors change at the end of the day and knowing that this was our beach to share. 

10:30pm. Hope mounting, headlights in place, library voices on. Proceed into the night to find the elusive kiwi bird. You are days away from civilization. This is kiwi country. Success is inevitable. 

Instead you will see 1 feral cat and a possum. Two invasive species that prey on kiwi chicks and so then you really cannot blame the birds for avoiding the area completely. 

No kiwis. Bedtime once more. Apply Bug spray before climbing into the sack - sandflies (a true New Zealand delight) find me delicious and they turn me into a maniacal murderer who will stop at nothing to rid the world of them. 

Day 3: turn around and walk backwards from whence you came knowing exactly what to expect. Pay close attention once more to your shoelaces. Dirt. Mud. Puddles. Moss and manuca branches. Shady fern gullies, rain forest canopy, stream crossing, muddy shoes, muddy pants. Repeat repeat repeat. 

On day 4 you know there are 9 hours before you can remove your wet socks and shoes. Time passes slowly then quickly with seemingly random intervals. Every day starts with the hope of able bodied agility and moves through fatigue, despair, and finally acceptance. You didn't need those toenails anyway. 

Finally, you've done it! 3 nights and 4 days on Stewart Island. You've seen no kiwis but it's been fun hearing about how everyone else saw 4 of them. Rest easy for tomorrow brings with it the morning chorus of birds like you've never imagined were real. 

Niagra Falls Bluegrass Festival

We are in the area called The Catlins. It is the area on the most southeasterly coast of New Zealand. The T-shirts at the Niagra Falls Cafe say "We see the light first" - which may be nearly true. There is a good chance that farmers in The Catlins up at sunrise are the first people in the world to greet the day.  We fortuitously stumbled upon the most endearing local "festival" maybe ever and it has just been lovely. 

It's been a little while since I contributed a blog. I wrote one about a week ago - more about relationship strife and the Baryn evolution - but decided no one wanted to read my personal journal entry so I never posted it. TLDR : neither of us felt understood. We cried on a beautiful beach and saved a perfect rock from the shores to remind us to be kinder and supportive whenever we see it on the dashboard. And since then there's been only goodness. 

Briefly, after we left the WWOOF farm in Kurow (where I was offered a PA job and Bill was gifted the most perfect kiwi farmer hat) we had a Taryn day and saw fossils and geology and the Narnia set. Beth Dushman - you aren't kidding. The crazy giant penguin fossils and iron ore deposited rocks that make magnetic rings are amazing. I even had a date with 90-year old Burns (that's his first name) who is a wealthy artist, owns the only functioning smelting operation in NZ and volunteers as a docent at the ancient history museum in Duntroon where he runs around with a cane and geeks out on paleontology with other geeks like me. I showed him photos of Cedar Mesa native ruins and we both nearly cried when I told him that our new president might help turn them into oil. 

 

Then we drove to Oamaru where we strolled along ancient Victorian streets and browsed vintage and used book stores before finally settling on that beautiful deserted beach so that we could cry together and appologize. 

 

This is Oamaru Bay. 

 

 

We started driving south on the coastal route and stopped at Moaraki Boulders - a popular tourist spot to take pictures with incredible ancient sea floor remnants.  The boulders are made of hard calcite crystals from millions of years ago. Over time they were covered in sediment which then as the seas receeded became crumbly cliffs. As the cliffs have eroded, they uncover these hard boulders and new ones are still tumbling out as the cliffs continue to erode. 

 

 

(Don't tell the other tourists but down the road are completely deserted beaches with literally hundreds of these boulders that are hollow on the inside). Bill kindly endorsed my 10/10 excitement and pulled over 3 times to let me see more boulders. 

 

 

 

It rained all that afternoon and evening and we kept dry at the Moeraki Tavern. We slept in the forest that night and bathed in a cold stream in the morning. On a recommendation from our Kurow friends, we went to Fleur's Kitchen (anyone else thinking about Harry Potter?) which was absolutely one of the best meals I've ever had. And I'm unreasonably obsessed with food. I've only gained about 5 pounds on this trip so far which I'll call pretty good. Fleurs is in the teeny tiny town of Moeraki. Population maybe 100 if that. Home to a tavern, this restaurant and an RV park and otherwise fishermen and their boats. All of the wooden buildings are suffering from beautiful slow sea air rot that makes them look fragile but important. The bay was dim and cloudy that morning but the complex layers of clouds and sneaky rays of light that made their way to the ocean surface created a pallet of greens and blues and grays that even Home Depot's paint department would be jealous of. 

We enjoyed warm espresso and peach coffee cake on the upper balcony while seagulls patiently asked to share. We then had tomato and shellfish stew and a fish sandwich on fresh baked bread. Each bite and each deep yoga breath inhale of sea air was rich and cleansing. Honestly- a meal to remember.  

We made it eventually to Dunedin.  We perused the botanical gardens and aviary (where the grey parrots know the first verse to Singing in the Rain), saw albatrosses in flight (amazingly graceful giants that sting your heart with awe when you see them wheeling effortlessly in the wind), and even found the only bar with live music on a Wednesday and enjoyed a wide range of local talent at the weekly open mic night. One of the acts, Michael, a regular, played the piano and sang in the same way that Jason Segal does during his rock opera about Dracula at the end of Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Jason seriously would have loved it. 

Finally, against all recommendations from TLC, we took the scenic coastal route and went chasing waterfalls all the way to Curio Bay. We saw some real good ones! There's a waterfall on the map called Margaret Falls and we really wanted to see it to honor all 4 Margarets in our family but we can't find the trail head. The picture below is of McLeans Falls.  

 

On Saturday morning we woke up at 6:30am and took surfing lessons in Curio Bay. Nick, our instructor, was a "typical kiwi" who surfs big waves, dreams of Mavericks at Halfmoon Bay and stamps his feet in the sand to the beat of the theme song to Lone Ranger whenever the Hectors dolphins swim nearby because he wants them to know it's him. 

The lesson was a grand success. Bill improved greatly which made me so proud and also feel so much better about him renting boards on his own in the future. Prior to the lesson whenever Bill would borrow a board and go out to try his luck at surfing it felt like waving goodbye to my untrained loved one as he entered the colleseum for gladiator games. He would just get a severe beating. And then because he's Bill when asked how it was he'd always reply "it's just so great to get out on the water."  

But now Bill's timing, stance, balance and success rate are so improved I can see him really learning to surf. We will likely spend a good bit of our Australia time surfing and will also likely stop in Hawaii before we head to mainland USA and will surf there too. Bill will be a practiced avid surfer by the end of our trip! 

 

 

Because of the weight gain I mentioned earlier, we followed our surfing lesson with a track workout in the wind. Took another bath in the river next to Niagra Falls, New Zealand, and paid $10 for entrance to the 2017 Niagra Falls Cafe Bluegrass Festival. 

 

Niagra used to be a gold mining town, but its since been deserted. In the 1880's, it's cheeky founder noted a small "waterfall" (some large flat rocks with about 3 feet of water pouring over them)in the stream nearby and seeing it's striking resemblance to the American/Canadian falls, named the town after it. Signs next to the town say "The Other Niagra Falls". Theres a town hall, the cafe, and some residual sheep farmers left over but aside from that you could blink and miss the whole town. A population of 10 would be generous. One of the locals plays the guitar and stand up bass and is the organizer. He is very pink from sunburn. Almost Muppet pink. Wears a neon green t-shirt, huge overalls, a cowboy hat and sunglasses and almost never smiles when he's introducing a band or a song. 

The festival is on the lawn in the back of the cafe and musicians included there were about 100 attendants total. Mostly all locals from nearby Waikawa where a husband and wife duo are music teachers and have raised "heaps" of musical children. Therefore, almost every child in that town plays music or sings and it shows. The town hosts about 6 of these music and dance festivals per year and most acts are local farmer/fisherman/musicians from somewhere in the rural Catlins. A few folks have wandered down from Dunedin or Invercargill but most are from here. 

During the festival it seemed that any one of the locals would jump on stage for a song or two with whoever was playing and then sit down. People: keep your ears out for Locky Hayes - I predict a future star. At 21 he's the son of the music teachers and plays harmonica and guitar and sings beautifully. Plus he's an adorable ginger. Success is inevitable.

 

Last and so very much not least a Sean Connery look-a-like in a kilt and with a white daisy in his lapel used the 1880 town hall to call Irish dancing for everyone at the festival.  Until midnight we stomped and clapped and do-si-do'd in this old barn to Irish folk music with a bunch of local kids in high top converse all stars. It's hard to capture how ridiculously quaint this all was. At one point Sean Connery played Sweet Caroline on his guitar and Bill and I got to explain how you say "Dun Dun Dun" after the verse and the locals loved the Americana of it all. We slept in our van in an old sheep paddock and had two cups of coffee the next morning. Because we earned it!

Sunday - the music continued on the lawn and in the town hall and it was awesome. 

 

In conclusion, I highly recommend the annual Niagra Falls Bluegrass Festival and I'd like to take you all back here next year to enjoy it.