With no generator to wake us, we sleep until the guides pound on our doors. We dress and head down to make our last sack lunches for the bus trip to Queenstown. But before that five hour trip, we have breakfast and prepare for our two hour cruise on Milford Sound.

Before we get on the boat we must give back our backpacks and Mitre Peak Bag. Everything we have is now in a giant pink plastic bag. We have officially transitioned from backpackers to homeless people.

On the cruise we enjoy waterfalls, birds, and fur seals.

We reboard the bus, and begin our long journey back to Queenstown. We wind through the georgous Fiord National Park, passing magically through the mountain wall in a long dark tunnel. 

On this trip we saw endangered short-necked Pateke ducks, cheeky Kea mountain parrots, and endangered Whio blue ducks. Yet the most incredible thing I witnessed was my wife Terri, carrying a backpack on a multi-day trek in the wilderness. It is something I do not expect to ever gaze upon again.

The generator starts promptly at 6:15 am. The clothes we pull on are much damper than we remember removing from the drying room last night. Oh well, they are completely dry compared to the hiking shoes, which have been in the boot room all night. The boot room seems less a drier, and more a humidor… keeping some 47 pairs of shoes a very consistent state of soggy. Actually, Colin and Elleneta’s are quite dry, because guide John told them to sneak their sneakers into the clothes drying room right before the generator shuts off at 10. Left at the normal clothes drying temperature, shoe glue melts and the sole separates from the body. But apparently timed just right, the shoes remain warm and soulful.

Our routine is becoming routine: drink coffee, make lunch, consume breakfast, which this time includes poached eggs and bacon. Today is a relatively flat 13 miles, and the weather seems partly cloudy but dry. We march along the Arthur River towards the dreaded Sandfly Point. These nasty biting creatures are everywhere, and the apparent point of the point’s name makes our destination a bit less desirable. 

Water from yesterday’s rain is still pouring out of every nook and cranny. Our first B&B is Dumpling Hut, where we use the bathrooms and fill our bottles.

We press on to the boatshed, where we are served hot drinks of coffee and Milo. Refreshed we make a short jaunt away from sandflies to Mackay Falls. Right next to the falls is Bell Rock, which Terri and I crawl into. It is not until Lewis crawls in with his lit up cell phone, that we can actually see the hollowed out bell shape we are now standing in. One of the guides later tells us the record is 31 people inside the bell. Frankly we felt a bit cramped with just the three of us.

We continue on to Giants Gate falls for lunch. It is cooler than expected, so we quickly scarf our food sitting on a log, within the spray of the falls. We continue on, counting mile markers, past Doughboy, and towards Sandfly Point. We duck into an enclosed shelter for hot drinks, and to escape the biting flies. The former being more successful than the later. In the shelter we find Lewis’ waterbottle, which is actually his friend’s. He has struggled to keep track of it the entire trip, so it seems appropriate that he has gotten off on the first boat without it.

The sandflies at Sandfly Point are apparently on their way to Mitre Peak Lodge, since they all board the boat with us.  The Quick ride takes us by Bowen Falls, impressive not only for its beauty, but also because it powers the Milford Sound Electric Company turbine. Unless the water fall shuts off at 10pm, we should have power all night. Given we are on a hiking tour, the bus ride from the dock to the lodge seems ridiculously short, but we take it. 

After a quick shower and rest, we head down for our lamb shank dinner. Lewis, who would normally cook this meal, sits with us, ready to be served by his mates. Not surprisingly, they can’t let it go without a bit of fun. Lewis is served a hunk of raw califlower, decorated to look like a lamb. We join in by serving him water from his lost and now found bottle. 

After dinner we have a short award ceremony, where names from every nationality are butched more than the lamb.

We retire with electricity, but succumb to fading energy.

The generator again wakes us too early. We head down to make sack lunches, for this our most difficult day. The McKinnon Pass is between us and the Quinton Lodge, and apparently sandwiches and chocolate are the only way to make it up and over. We are told to double whatever we had yesterday. If we had one sandwich we should make two. If we had two we should make four. The same goes for chocolate bars, including the newly added to our diet fudge slices. 

To our normal breakfast of cereal and yogart, we add Eggs Benedict. It is raining lightly but the Kea birds are not detered. These mountain parrots are tearing away at every bolt, rivet, nail or piece of cloth. We had been warned to keep everything indoors, including our shoes, so as not to tempt these cheeky characters. We now clearly see why.

We head out into a light drizzle. Our jackets and rain pants, which we fear will overheat us to the point of spontaneous combustion, remain buried in our packs. The world renowned views from the top of the pass, seem destined to evade us. We stop at our last B&B before the pass, with B&B being bladder emptying and bottle filling spot. The amount of water coming from the sky makes filling bottles seem silly, but we comply.

We zig-zag our way towards the top, where we break down and put on light rain jackets. The rain and wind is growing and blowing. The mile markers in this area seem mysteriously further apart then they should. We finally reach the monument, where we are treated with warm Milo, but no views. The actual lunch shelter is another 30 minutes away, and the warmth of the drink is long gone before we arrive. We are now soaked to the quick of our quick drying underwear.

In the shelter we scramble for space. We stuff ourselves with food, in the hope that warming our belly will some how warm the rest of our body. Our ultimate fantasy is to warm our bodies so much that we warm our soaking clothes. 

The crafty Kea birds, normally so common at the pass, are no where to be found. We were earlier told they have the intelligence and attitude of a three year old child. Given I do not see any three year old children dumb enough to be out in this weather, I think it might be true.

We rearrange some clothes, putting on more layers of wet. After one last hot drink, we head back out in the blowing wet clouds. We slip multiple times, some times in our wet shoes, and other times with our now loose tongues. Occasionally the clouds lift for brief but spectacular views of falls and cascades. Clear skies would make for incredible grand vistas, but pouring rain makes for unbelievable raging waters, which now seem to be sreaming out from everywhere.

By the time we finally reach Quinton Lodge, most walkers seem fine with not walking more of this finest walk in the world. The drying rooms are overflowing with fragrant fabric. After a hot drink, however, I press on the optional miles to and from Sutherland falls. The sun pokes out just long enough for me to get great views of the world’s fifth tallest waterfall, and New Zealand’s number one hit.

After dinner and a brief slide show, we retire. Tomorrow will be a much gentler 13 mile stroll to the boat launch, where we will catch a ride to Mitre Peak Lodge.

The generator wakes us before the sun has a chance to. We head to the Glade House for coffee and to make our trail lunches. We concoct various sandwiches, salads, and wraps, then toss in trail mix, fruit and chocolate. We are so exhausted from lunch making, we have to break for more coffee and our first course of breakfast: cereal, yogurt, fruit and juice. Later, we cram down eggs and bacon.

Today’s walk is a relatively flat 10 mile stroll through absolutely beautiful country. The weather is cool but clear, as we cross the Clinton River, to follow it generally northwest. There are about 25 people on the suspension bridge when the guides point out the “10 persons maximum” sign. We are a most energetic group, but clearly not the hiking club of Mensa. The path is wide, smooth, and as manicured as the 18th green at Pebble Beach. The river varies between so clear you are not sure there is water in it, to surreal deep emerald and aqua pools. The rainbow trout are the biggest I have ever seen. They seem comically disproportionate, like an SUV stretch limosine. It’s possible, but is it necessary? I try to imagine the fight these massive trout could give on a 4 lb line, but they seem far too magestic, clearly above that sort of thing.

The valley is unusually dry, and it is clear we are missing out on some of the spectacular falls and cascades. We are, however, quite content to enjoy the sunshine and breathtaking vistas. The Blue Bush Robins have no fear, and enjoy the insects we stir up by walking. When we stand still, they approach, pick at or shoes, and eventually jump up and smack our shins, as if to say “keep plowing, I’m still hungry.”

At our lunch stop we are entertained by a freshwater eel the size of my leg. He is completely unafraid. It is quite possible he has been previously hand fed, perhaps literally.The entire area seems a bit like the Galapagos. The animals, lacking major predators, are quite casual and confident.

We cool our feet in Prairie Lake, before the final push to Pompolona. After getting our treehouse like room, we head down for scones, jam and cream. The legend of the scones is that they contained a secret ingredient: candle wax. Perhaps not quite as bad as it seems, the first Milford Track guide/cook needed fat for the scones, and candles at that time were made from mutton fat. Problem solved.
After a quick shower, I head to the guest laundry to hand wash our clothes, ring them out in the hand cranked wrangler/strangler, then put them on a line in the drying room. I later point out to Terri that none of the Asian men on the trip are doing their own laundry, let alone their wives delicates. She seems unfazed by my observation.

Terri and I split our beef and mushroom dinners, and somehow force down the creme brulee. The generator is off again at ten. We fall asleep to the sounds, but not sights, of the nocturnal kiwis.