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.
No comments:
Post a Comment