Routeburn Track Fiordland National Park

March 14, 2017 — Day 1

This is the biggest day thus far.  Dave and I must re-design our luggage for backpacking mode.  To that end, Dave's daypack and bulky laptop fit best in my big suitcase.

It is about three-quarters of a mile from our hostel to the downtown Tracknet station, where we will catch a bus to the trailhead.  Whatever we are not taking on the tramp will be transported and stored at our exit location in the town of Te Anau, for a mere $30 charge.

We're at the Tracknet facility by 7:30 a.m.

The early-morning bus ride along the shore of Lake Wakatipu is spectacular.

Our trail is somewhere behind those islands

The bus stops in Glenorchy for a coffee break.  Dave has learned that the easiest way to make friends while traveling is to offer to take their pictures.

We'll make a photographer of him yet

Well, the big moment has arrived.  The signpost says that it's a 4-hour walk to our hut; it might take us a bit longer.

Do I look excited?

That's "rute-burn", by the way.  Anyone who says, "rowt-burn" brands himself as an American.

Getting started

I expect to see a lot of this

Our route is following the burn.  I guess that's why they call it The Routeburn.

What a color variety

The nature of this trek has made it necessary to leave my #1 camera behind in favor of a little unit that is weather-tolerant.  Equally importantly, it is pocketable.  A camera that is not readily accessible never is used enough, and there is no easily reachable pocket on my backpack itself.

An elaborate trailside potty

The New Zealand parks take their waste-disposal issues quite seriously, to the extent of using helicopters to hoist it out and away from the pristine parklands.

At Routeburn Flats

More riverside artwork

The first of several swinging bridges

We stop for a while on the bridge, but not in the rockfall area

Above Routeburn Flats

How's my #2 camera doing?  Actually, I also am toting another pocketable unit as a backup, in a waterproof bag.  Although it has the advantage of a long zoom, I don't know how much action it will see.

The trail vacillates from painful to cakewalk

Approaching the Routeburn Falls Hut

Made it!  And I never bothered to use my walking stick all day long.  Doubtless I will not be so lucky tomorrow.  I am rather weary nonetheless, and my back hurts some.  I do not use a backpack for my normal hiking, and this is one of the reasons.  Even though I have gone out of the way to make my load as light as possible (only about 15 pounds plus whatever is in the water bottle), this body is not accustomed to it.  (Never mind that some of the youngsters around here are carrying packs three or four times that heavy; I no longer am one of them.)

The bunkhouse is comprised of twelve stalls of two bunkbed units each.  We have arrived early enough that two lower berths are available.  The room has but a few tiny windows and there is no electric lighting; so we must fumble around in relative darkness arranging our stuff.  It's a mighty good thing that I thought to bring my headlamp.  It hasn't been used since Patagonia five years ago, but the light still is strong and bright.

This flag says "Merry Christmas" in a couple dozen languages   ⇔

Two of my shirts are soaking wet — not from rain, but exertion and humidity; so I hang them on the deck railing to dry, then try to find a warm place to sit in the sun for a while.  Retiring to my bunk for a good hour eases my ailing back a bit.  Afterwards, I must find something else to do.  That turns out to be very easy, because a five-minute scramble up the trail behind the hut leads to this:

Routeburn Falls

Another one over to the left is even better:

This is why I go hiking

Incredible coloration on the rock

Naturally, I must explore farther up the trail to see what else might be there.

The camp water supply is right here

Camp signs proclaim that as far as management is concerned, the natural water is perfectly fit to drink, but that some might prefer to boil it first.  I'll take my chances.

The Hottentot Fig is the only remaining flower
Overlooking the camp

Different strokes for different folks

Gas stoves are provided in the huts on all the Great Walks, in season.  They are not like the ones at the hostels, however; for they have no self-lighting mechanisms.  Dave and I find ourselves sitting in the kitchen awaiting the arrival of someone with a lighter or a match.  Stupid.

The camp dining hall

At 7:30 p.m., the resident ranger gives us a nice talk, including the usual admonishments about tidiness and cleanup.  He says that every morning he finds stuff that was left behind, up to and including some false teeth!

We also are told to be wary of the kea, the big alpine parrots.  They are smart enough to learn how to trigger deadbolts on doors, and they will peck at or steal anything of interest that might be available.  According to the ranger, "When the kea are quiet, mischief is afoot".

Ranger John also quips that tomorrow, those of us headed for Harris Saddle will be crossing over to the "Dark Side", or the adjoining Fiordland National Park, where they allegedly will sell you a fishing licence even though no fish actually can make it up past all the waterfalls.

Finally, John tantalizes us with a huge chocolate bar, offered as a prize for the person who can identify sufficiently many languages featured on the big flag.  I just happen to have a couple of pieces of paper and an old mechanical pencil that I got from a bridge-scoring pack that was produced in 1935.  Dave grabs those and uses them to identify 15 languages, tying the total achieved by a Chinese foursome that we had been seeing on the trail all day long.

Unfortunately, the minimal requirement for winning the prize is 20 languages; Dave estimates that that bar of chocolate has been around for many years.  Ranger Clive says that he had not seen another American who could identify more than four languages.

Ranger Clive grades the contest entries

At some point I had changed to the berth above Dave, and of course I had some cause to regret it due to a nature call in the middle of the night.  Climbing a ladder in the dark, quietly, with a stranger's clothes hanging on it, is not a lot of fun.