The Routeburn Track

 If you will allow me to digress from the usual chronological flow of my blog (actually, you have no choice, sorry), I will skip slightly ahead to our second great block of adventure: the Routeburn Track. I'll return to the journey from Aoraki/Mt Cook in my next post and tie it in with a recap on Queenstown and Milford Sound.

We woke up at the confusingly named Melbourne Lodge Hotel in Queenstown, New Zealand. The previous night we had repacked our bags for backpacking and so, after popping to a grocery store and finally acquiring the elusive powdered milk for Granola's granola, we saddled up and headed north out of Queenstown.

We had an hour drive to the trailhead for the Routeburn Track. The road followed along the edge of Lake Wakatipu, the serpentine, glacial lake on which Queenstown is located. The translucent turquoise water showed stunningly beautiful whitecaps in the wind. Overhead we had sun, but misty clouds lay ahead in the distant mountains. After passing the northern tip of the lake, we entered a wide and rocky river basin down which the Dart River ambled. Looking across these flats to the mountains on the other side was exciting because this was the filming location for Isengard in the Lord of the Rings films. You could picture Saruman's tower domineering over the landscape; the ents emerging from Fangorn forest and tearing down a dam to flood the plain. Only today there are no remnants of the filming from 25 years ago; Google Maps includes a landmark called Isengard Lookout, but not even a single placard marks the space today.

We parked the car at the trailhead, which had a beautiful pavillion with signboards advocating for the protection of New Zealand's endangered species. There are no native small mammals on the South Island, so introduced species of rats, stoats, possums, and cats wreak havoc on the island's native birds. As a result, around 8 or 10 bird species are threatened or endangered, including birds like the aforementioned Kea, the Whio (a blue duck), the Morepork (an owl species), along with well-known species like the Kiwi and Kaka. Throughout our trip we heard several presentations and read many signs regarding efforts to control preditor populations. The DOC has thousands of traps set throughout the national parks and checks them on a monthly basis. It's great to see how serious New Zealand is about protecting its native fauna and I hope their efforts prove successful.

Setting out from the trailhead, we immediately realized that this would be a much different environment than we had experienced in Aoraki. Rather than the dry semi-arid grasses of the Hooker Glacier valley, we found ourselves in a lush temperate rainforest. Tall beeches created a high canopy over a densely ferny understory. Every surface was covered in olive-green moss, from the tree trunks to the ground. As a very mature forest, blow-downs and shattered tree trunks filled the forest, but nothing here was freshly fallen; everything was rotting and covered in moss.

The Routeburn Track is what they call a Great Walk in New Zealand, one of several multi-day backpacking tracks through the Southern Alps. In total, this end-to-end track is a couple dozen kilometers and I believe it usually takes 3 days to complete. The trail roughly followed the Routeburn, a mighty glacial river, on its way up into the high peaks. There it followed a ridge up to The Divide of New Zealand before descending down into the Milford Sound valley. More on that in the next blog. There are 3 or 4 huts along the route where backpackers can overnight. We had unfortunately been unsuccessful in booking huts along the entire route and therefore our plan was not to do the entire Routeburn Track. Instead, we would backpack in to the Routeburn Flats hut where we would spend two nights before exiting the way we entered. We would day-hike from our outpost, covering a bit more of the Routeburn Track.

Everything in the rainforest was damp or dripping. The mist and rain we anticipated on the way in wasn't too bad, but nonetheless the wetness abounded in the forest. The track went up gently and wound through the forest until we came around a corner and were met with the first of several wonderfully wobbly suspension bridges. At each bridge, the raging and tumbling Routeburn gushed with foamy white water, bashing and tumbling violently down the forested gully. Each bridge offered me a chance to relive my doctorate as our heavy packs easily excited the structures vertically and laterally.

Before too long the narrow gully started to open up. We were on the left bank heading upstream, still in the woods, but on the right the river flattened out in a wide flood plain. A steep but short conical mountain could be seen across the flats; in this plain, the main branch of the Routeburn intersected with the North Branch prior to funneling out the way we had ascended. This was the Routeburn Flats and we arrived at the hut bearing its name.

Imagine the conical mountain at the center of the flats, flanked on the north by the North Branch and on the west by the main river. The flats were huge, yet roughly horseshoe shaped, wrapping around this conical mountain. The flats had no trees; only vast swaths of grass on the perfectly flat terrain. This was in sharp contrast to the steep, forested walls of the valley on the outside and the conical mountain on the inside.

The Routeburn Flats hut was situated just on the edge of the flats, tucked into the trees. I would say the hut was maybe just a meter or two above the level of the swiftly flowing Routeburn. The hut featured three buildings. One, a three-hole latrine with flush toilets (luxury!!). The next was the main quarters with a sheltered outdoor area for day hikers, a kitchen with steel sinks and gas stoves (luxury!!!!), a common dining room with old-fasioned iron fireplace, and two bunk rooms with cushy mattresses (luxury!!!!!!). Finally, a small building served as quarters for a full-time DOC warden (Mitch) who looked after the site and gave us lovely endangered species talks.

On one such talk, Mitch informed us that the huts used to have lead nails. The DOC discovered that the Kea population was contracting lead poisoning and, after minimal investigation, it was found that the parrots had been pulling the nails out of the roof panels. Not only was this detrimental to the parrots, but it had been causing leaks in huts throughout New Zealand....

The walk in had not been arduous by any definition (admittedly I haven't consulted my crew for their concurrence on this statement), but we settled in and made ourselves at home. We enjoyed some tea, snacks (coconut date balls, chili almonds, and Whittaker's NZ chocolate slab), and photography, opting to enjoy a casual long evening looking out the hut window rather than pursuing additional walks. With card games, crosswords, amazing window views, and fellow hikers to entertain us, the time passed quickly. Dinner evolved into nighttime and soon it was off to bed.

Where the evening had brought beautiful skies, the night brought rain. I awoke in the middle of the night to lightning and thunder powerful enough to shake my bunk. Stan and I had independently wondered if it was an avalanche or earthquake - but ultimately we decided thunder was the only cause. But thunder was the least of the impacts. With approximately 70 mm (3 in) of rain overnight, the idyllic Routeburn overtopped its banks; the Flats were awash with angry flood waters. Thankfully the hut was well out of the way, but it became obvious why the flats were as flat as they were: so much sediment coming down from the high peaks being deposited at this bottleneck in the river. The forces of nature are truly inspiring.

It came to light that poor Pola was on day one of illness, so Stan, Grace, and I would day hike while she "manned the fort". It was really sad that she couldn't join us, but there are certainly worse places to be holed up with a cold than the scenic Routeburn Flats hut.

The three of us set out after a massive granola and powdered milk breakfast. We were head to toe in waterproofs as the day promised to hit the dreaded trifecta of cold, windy, and rainy weather. In the steady rain, we headed west along the banks of the Routeburn, climbing through the forest and occasionally crossing the river by more suspension bridges. A few kilometers in, we reached the Routeburn Falls hut, a veritable hut complex next to an incredible surging waterfall. Climbing up and over the waterfall, we exited the forest in favor of a rugged yellow-brown marshy grassland. "Hills" on both sides and in front of us bounded the river valley, which twisted out of view to the right. We continued near to the still-surging Routeburn, but we wondered where all this water was coming from since we could see the ridge above us.

The trail sloped up along the walls of the rounded valley and unfortunately it had become a stream in its own right. Along the way, I noticed we were walking on some of the most interesting rocks and minerals. First we had a stretch of delightfully light green granular rock, which Stan and I agreed was likely due to copper content. Then we entered into a stretch of tantalizingly deep purple rock, similar to the color of Amythyst, but opaque. These rocks occasionally had marble seams. Also there were some sections with quartz. Finally, higher still, we found shiny grey rocks which were almost metallic in nature. As you can tell, I have yet to do the back research on all this great geology, but when I do, I'll add a brief addendum to the bottom of the post.

We have no doubt that the color of the rocks and minerals were improved by the wet conditions. It had continued to spit rain and in some sections we were met with showers. As we gained elevation, the wind picked up; I found myself persistently adding and removing a winter hat and my raincoat hood in various combinations, attempting to balance body temperature, outdoor temperature, and the inconsistent rain.

But for all that, we were having fun as we gained remarkable views. Below us we could finally see the winding oxbow path of the Routeburn through this upper valley. And ahead, we finally found the source of this mighty river: Harris Lake. Our trail did not go to the shores of Harris Lake, but above it, along some bluffs. What was interesting is that this glacial-fed lake sat at approximately El. 1000 m (3000 ft), well above the upper Routeburn valley (maybe El. 900 m) or the Routeburn Flats (El. 700 m). Similar to the Sealey Tarn, this Lake had been captured by a long, narrow outcrop, which limited the outflow of the lake to a very narrow funnel. But unlike the Tarn, which had a tiny surface area, Harris Lake was truly expansive. If we had to guess, Stan and I would say it was probably on the order of a half mile long by maybe a quarter mile wide. Under the dramatically cloudy skies in this damp yellow-brown terrain, the lake took on a dark, turbulent slate-grey appearance: mysterious and tempestuous.

Following the bluffs high above the lake was a windy endeavour, but rounding the corner, we had reached Harris Saddle. We walked up to an enclosed day shelter and, going inside, we were immediately met with a grim collection cold, soaked, and dejected backpackers. Indeed, we were fairly wet and cold too, but thankfully the fact that we were day hiking had kept our spirits high. Most of these poor backpackers had spent their way picking their way along the far side of the ridge, being buffeted by the wind, and walking entirely in cloud. No views, no warmth, no fun.

Indeed, it was warmer in the hut than outside, but it was certainly not warm. Sitting there eating lunch made us all cold and the humidity from all the steaming hikers made everything sticky. We didn't stay long.

On the bright side, when we set out again, the rain had largely stopped. We walked about a half kilometer along the ridge just to get a taste (cloudy, rugged, grassy) before turning back the way we had come. The trail back to the Routeburn Flats hut was largely uneventful aside from taking some selfies with my favorite rocks. Of course, uneventful does not mean uninspiring.

That evening, we again enjoyed dehydrated hiker meals. I had some carbonara thing augmented with more Whittaker's chocolate slab and other snacky treats. We worked on - and failed at - a crossword puzzle by candlelight. As we prepared to turn in, I went out to the toilets. On my way back, I heard a squawking in a tree just in front of me. Turning on my light, I looked up at the low branches and there were not one but two tiny Morepork owls! I suspect I accidentally blinded them but they were very patient as I took a few photos. I was super happy to see two of this amazing and uncommon bird hanging out at our hut!

The morning of the third day was getaway day. My boots were still soaked through so I deployed my hiking sandals to great effect, sloshing through every puddle and stream in utter defiance. Spirits were again high and we had a lovely walk back through the rainforest. We took a little side nature trail and saw some fantails flitting from tree to tree, fanning their tails in a showy black and white display. We enjoyed the sights and scenes, but most importantly we enjoyed being in each others' company. 

That night, as I started to come down with the same cold, we picked up venison and beef burgers from Fergburger in Queenstown and we took them to a permanently moored bar boat on the water. The scene was utterly splendid with the late day sun hitting the bright light-blue water, the undulating Remarkables mountain range providing a perfect backdrop. We also went to Patagonia Ice Cream and I enjoyed a dulce de leche scoop on top of a kind of carmel/chocolate swirl scoop in a chocolate dipped waffle cone.

This is the life!

Cookin in Aoraki National Park

Mount Cook, or Aoraki per the Maori, lies in the center of the eponymous national park. The portion of the park where we stayed has two adjacent U-shaped valleys, both funneling into Lake Pukaki. The right valley contains the Tasman Glacier, the longest glacier in New Zealand at approximately 20 km (13 mi). The Tasman Glacier - like most glaciers - is receding rapidly, and it has left a giant glacial lake in its wake. More on that later. The left valley is dominated by the Hooker Glacier, which parallels the Tasman Glacier. A "narrow" side fork extends off the Hooker valley at nearly right angles. The Hermitage Hotel - consisting of the hotel, a series of lodges, a Department of Conservation Visitor Centre, and a couple other facilities, are nestled into the base of the Hooker valley below the intersection with the side valley. Aoraki in its 12,000 ft of grandeur peered out from behind the mountains dividing the Hooker and Tasman valleys. This would be our playground for the next two days.

We had a slow start the first day. "Granola" - Grace, Stan, Pola - were a bit jetlagged coming from Australia and of course we'd had a late night stargazing, so we really ambled our way out of bed. After a delicious cafe breakfast (bacon quiche and a decorative flat white), we decided that we should do some light walks and save the big hike for the next day. So we donned our day packs and made for the Hooker glacier. When Sir Edmund Hillary became the first westerner to summit "Mount Cook", it's likely he followed this route up the Hooker valley. Today there's a well-delineated track for hikers to follow, including three suspension bridges that lead up to a lookout of Aoraki; In Sir Edmund's day there probably weren't such well-defined trails, but there were several teams attempting the summit and the Hermitage had already been established as the main base camp.

It would ultimately turn out that the Hooker valley was not the easiest means of summiting Aoraki and it took Sir Edmund three attempts to finally succeed. Indeed, we also failed in our attempt up the valley - but that was because they were doing trail reconstruction work between the 2nd and 3rd bridges. Better luck next time, but at least we had a decent view up the side valley from the point of the closure.

We returned to the Hermitage to complete the 6km out-and-back and decided we hadn't walked enough. So we hopped in the car and drove around to the Tasman valley. The parking area is at the bottom of Lake Tasman and a viewpoint provides views looking up the valley. But we didn't do that. Instead, we followed a gravel road up the left side of the lake. To our left, scree-ridden mountains perpetually threatened avalanche and signs forebade us from stopping in certain sections. On our right, a glacial morraine walled us off from the lake so we had no way of knowing that we were actually a few hundred feet up. That is - until we clambered up an unmarked path to a saddle in the morraine and witnessed the knife-edge drop plummeting to the milky blue water below. 

Two tiny motor boats sped along the bank of the lake, each conveying maybe 20 people towards the glacier. Across the lake, the next mountain range loomed large and it too had countless scree slopes plummeting down into the lake.

After a few wind-swept minutes, we clambered down from the top of the morraine and continued along the gravel track. The walking was easy as we continued up slope. The track widened out as we followed the bottom of the slope; we noticed dry rivulets and gullies in the gravelly surface as evidence of past water flows. Finally the track reached the elevation of the top of the morraine and a sign warned us of the risk of landslides. A few hundred meters ahead, we were surprised to see that the road stopped - at a shear drop-off! We approached with caution as there were no barricades or fences. Ahead and to the right, the 30 m (100 ft) face of the Tasman glacier could be seen way way down below us. Cutting across our road, a giant gash had been carved in the landscape - the continuation of the road could be seen several hundred yards ahead across a deep ravine. We would later learn that a catastrophic landslide occurred in 2019, as a river coming from the mountain ridge on our left had obliterated a huge volume of the granular glacial till that we had been walking on. As we stood there in the wind, alone at the end of this road, a disconcerting realization came over us. The shear multi-hundred foot drop-offs on both sides of the cut made us quite uneasy and we realized we needed to make a move. It's never pleasant lingering in such eerie situations.

By the time we returned to the Hermitage, it was around 7 pm but the sun was still plenty high in the sky. Compared to sunsets in the northeast (4 pm) or Fiji (6:30 pm), we would be blessed with 9 pm sunsets in New Zealand. This would prove to be a real treat, enabling lots of great daytime hiking. In any case we showered up and hit the Chamois Bar and Grill at the Hermitage lodges. Salmon, pizza, and fried chicken burgers were on the menu; a delicious boysenberry soda hit the spot. 

****

The next morning we were primed and ready for our big hike - an attempt at the Muller Hut. Unlike the previous day, which was more distance (12 miles) than elevation (800 ft or so), attaining the Mueller hut would be a grueling hike gaining 3400 ft in a 6 mile out-and-back. The ascent had three sections. The first half of the hike consisted of a climb of 2000 stairs to a viewpoint called Sealey Tarn, which looked out over the Hooker Glacier valley. Then the ascent continued on rugged track until it crested the ridge of Ollivier mountain at a knob overlooking the side valley off of the Hooker. The third leg would consist of ascending a gentle tableland until reaching the Mueller Hut. 

As we ascended rapidly from the Hooker valley we were primarily in the woods, so we didn't have too many views. Even if we did, there was considerable huffing and puffing going up the endless stairs, which required our attention. The trail was busy with hikers and tourists, as the Sealey Tarns is the premiere hike for most of the valley's guests. Before too long though, the trees started to thin and we had some gaps affording excellent views back toward the lower Hooker valley. The Hermitage was already looking kind of small off in the distance. At some point, Stan and I had a bit more momentum than Pola and Grace, so we pulled ahead. Thankfully I brought along a couple two-way radios I had used in my youth as a Boy Scout and these came in handy for keeping in touch on several of the trails when we split up.

A couple hours in we emerged at the Sealey Tarn, finally above the treeline. The tarn is perched at approximately 1000 m (3000 ft) elevation, on the side of the knob. The tarn is retained by a small outcrop that looks out at the Hooker valley where the side valley intersects it. We could see that there had been a morraine at the intersection of these two valleys and way up behind the morraine, the Hooker Glacier was visible. We could also see all three of the suspension bridges we hadn't been able to do the previous day. Of course, they were tiny tiny bridges due to the distance. Rising behind the Hooker Glacier was Aoraki with its snowy double peak. This vantage point up the Hooker valley gave us the best view of Aoraki from head to toe.

Aoraki, of course, was totally covered in snow since it was still springtime. But the unfortunate reality we would confront is that most of the lower peaks also had snow melt on them as well. Across the side valley from Mount Ollivier, which we were climbing, was Mount Sifton. This was the closest tall peak to the Hermitage and even from our lodge, we had seen that the peak had vast amounts of snow clinging to its rocky cliffs.

So as we left Sealey Tarn on the next leg of our ascent, it was no surprise to look up at the hike before us and see a steep slope totally covered in snow. The good news is that we had visited the DOC visitor information and we knew there was snow at elevation. However we did not know what the conditions would be like. The previous week had seen additional snow fall and the entire pack had been icy. But the last couple days had been extremely sunny and so we were met with very soft snow. Unfortunately, it was impossible to tell the depth of the snow and given the park's overall Medium Avalanche Risk rating, I was not too thrilled about what was in store. As my intrepid hiking partners forged ahead into the snow, I weighed up the situation and decided that literally tons of people had already done this walk this week and ultimately the slope wasn't that steep, and based on what I could see the snow likely wasn't more than 8-10 ft deep max. So on I went.

The task before us was probably about one kilometer in the snow to gain maybe 200 m of elevation to crest the knob. The mountainside was parabolic in shape and the trail (such as it was) ascended diagonally along the slope. Since plenty of people had gone in advance, there was a neat stairway in the snow that we could follow. Still, we had to toe in with each step to ensure decent footing. We also quickly learned that the couple of rock outcrops looked tempting but were folly. This is because the heat of the rocks would melt out the snow beneath the surface and as you approached, you couldn't be sure if you were standing on a solid bit of snow or if you'd punch through. 

Up and up we went, picking our way through the snow. Our feet were soaked with the freezing ice but on we tramped. Thankfully orange trail markers on tall posts made the way easier to follow. The sun was bright and the sky blue. It was cold but still plenty above freezing. Regardless, we were hot with sweat. In one remarkable moment, we heard some squawking towards the end of the knob. Looking up, we saw three threatened Kea - the world's only alpine parrots - soaring directly overhead in military formation. The bottoms of their wings shown bright orange and green, as if brightly painted for an airshow. An amazing spectacle to witness.

The views we were gaining were incredible, but nothing could prepare me for what we were to behold when we crested the knob. Indeed, as we emerged from the snow at the knob, there was an extremely jagged outcrop that we clambered up like the top of a mountain in a cartoon. As I planted my metaphorical flag, I stood in total and complete awe at the 360 degree view laid out before us. Behind us, down the snowy slope into the bottom of the Hooker valley was the wee tiny Hermitage nestled against the mountain. To the right was the Hooker glacier thousands of feet below, with Aoraki rising behind it. But straight in front and stretching to the left was the new awe-inspring view: Mount Sifton was the end of a wall of jagged mountains with a shear face plummeting down into a bottomless basin, the side valley that ended at the Hooker valley. Even though we were above elevation 5000 ft, Sifton stood well above us like an imposing big brother. Enormous sheets of snow dangled perilously from its imposing slate-grey facade and behind it some clouds struggled and failed to overtop the impenetrable ramparts. These battlements stretched off to the left and behind us indefinitely, the vast majesty of the Southern Alps laid bare. 

Our trail also went to the left and back on the far side of the knob we had just climbed. After passing around a few bluffs, we were met again with snow, this time in the form of a wide snow-covered tableland. Rather than a single track, hikers had clearly spread across its width as the entire tableland was covered in footprints and "post holes" where the deteriorating snow had given way under hikers' weight. 

At the top of the tableland against a yet higher bluff, there was perched a red shed on stilts: the Mueller Hut. This final kilometer through the not-quite-slushy snow in the sun was in equal measure exciting, tedious, and exhausting, but we did it! At long last, 4.5 hours in, we stepped directly from the snow bank onto the 6 ft high porch feeling extremely accomplished and ready to enjoy our lunch with a view of Aoraki and the range that ended with Mt Sifton. 

The way down was a joyous experience. We occasionally heard the boom of a massive avalanche in an adjacent valley, but our valley was quiet. Upon reaching the steep snow slope, it was evident that most hikers were utilizing a deep trough to slide all the way down the slope. Granola opted for this route, but I decided to bound down in the soft snow (for my safety and that of my DSLR). Our feet were wet and cold with the snow, but we were all having a great time.

That evening we returned to the Chamois for more well-deserved burgers and, this time, a pint. We recounted the magnificent scenery and the day's adventures as the sun set. Not only was I so proud of the group, but I'm so excited and grateful for these, my friends, with whom we could share such an amazing experience.

Before bed, Stan and I drove back to the Tasman valley. This time we took the short viewpoint trail under red lights up to its overlook of the Tasman Lake. In the blackness, the red light caught the eyes of a couple possums, who silently checked us out before slinking off. With Leonid meteors over head and Orion standing on his head over the opposite mountain range, we shot the night sky and picked out our new favorite constellations: the Southern Cross, Grus, Eridanus. The Milky Way gleamed and my photos even turned up the Aurora Australis in red and green at the southern end of the valley. 

The next day we'd follow this southern route out of the valley, on to our next set of adventures.

A Star in the South

Bet you never saw that blog title coming.

It's been a couple big days for sure. On Saturday I woke up well before my alarm - at 4 am - and looked out my open lanai door onto the pre-dawn Pacific in Fiji. Plot spoiler, I would go to bed that night around 1 am in New Zealand after stunning views of the 3150 m (10,340 ft) Mt Sefton and the 3725 m (12,220 ft) Aoraki (Mount Cook).

The flight from Fiji to Christchurch was uneventful, along with border and customs (mostly - I sacrificed a freeze-dried camp meal, oops). 

Who should come and pick me up at the airport, but my great friends Stan, Pola, and Grace. I haven't seen them since 2016 when I left the UK - it's been such a long time that we've kept up only by Skype. Thank goodness for technology for allowing us to keep in touch all these years! As you know, however, there's nothing like face-to-face interaction for building and rebuilding the bonds of friendship. I took turns giving each of my friends a huge hug.

They had rented a car in Christchurch, so after a quick grocery stop at "Woolies" (aka Woolworths) for staples like Whittaker's chocolate and milkless granola, we hit the road. From my seat on the left side of the cockpit, I watched as farm after farm rolled by our Mazda CX-80. There were tons of cattle, sheep, magpies, and blackbirds in each of the plots of farmland, which were separated by rows of tall, skinny trees - almost like booths at an antiques market. In a small town, we made a pit stop for peppered steak pie, which I topped with tomato sauce (aka ketchup) per local custom. 

But for the most part we were having a great time catching up and the hours and kilometers slipped by seamlessly. We scarcely noticed as the terrain changed from low country to high country. The broad, green fields became rolling pastureland. The pastureland became rough and rocky. The green gave way to amber fields and low brush. Occasionally we caught a glimpse of mountains in the distance.

When you approach the Canadian Rockies from the east, you have no choice but to admire their splendor and majesty. The great plains are totally flat up to the foot of the mountains and stretch forever in all directions. The Rockies are like ramparts of a mighty fortress. But here in New Zealand, the rugged hills blocked the view of the mountains, so you could easily miss the fact that you were approaching some of the most magnificent mountains on earth.

Indeed our first true awe didn't come until we were quite close to the foot of the mountains. We came around a bend and found ourselves at the southern tip of the long Lake Tekapo, a milky turquoise glacial lake. Across the lake, the mountains finally stretched indefinitely in both directions. On the near bank however, clusters of vibrant purple, blue, and white foxglove littered the shore, emitting the most marvelous fragrance. It was as if New Zealand's tourism bureau had deliberately crafted an official welcome scene for the Southern Alps.

Of course, these are the types of places that need no human explanation or welcome.

We continued driving to the southwest to the next glacial lake, Lake Pukaki. After going around the tip, we turned to the north and followed the spectacular western shore. Finally, we were in the National Park: Mount Cook, called Aoraki by the Maori, poked it's magnificent, snowy double-peak out from behind and above lesser mountains.

We were staying at the Hermitage, a hotel complex nestled in the Hooker Valley. After we checked in, we quickly went to dinner in a dining hall with a stunning view of Aoraki collecting the sun's last rays on it's western face before a deep blue evening sky. More on that to come.

As darkness closed in, we hopped on a shuttle with red lights, a stargazing expedition! The bus was filled with the guests of the lodge hoping to take advantage of the Park's International Dark Sky Reserve status - the best possible classification for a dark sky location. We went to a red-lit building with three Go-To motorized telescopes outside. As our eyes adjusted and some astronomers introduced themselves, it was clear we were in for a treat. 

The valley opened out to the south, and before us the Southern Cross glimmered brightly. On the left, in the northeast, there was Orion standing on his head again (see my Patagonia posts). Between the two, the Milky Way emerged clearly, down past Lupis and Eridanus and Carina and other southern hemisphere constellations. The star Canopus tried, as always, to outshine Sirius. A billion other stars stood by in waiting.

The astronomer put on a great presentation. We talked about the solar system and Saturn first, but then sped the other direction to the distant Large and Small Magellanic Cloud galaxies, huge and imposing overhead. We looked at the Tarantula Nebula, so large that even though it's outside the Milky Way, it's clearly visible in the telescope. We also looked at Alpha Centauri, a triple star system that is the closest star system to Earth, and two splendid star clusters: the Jewel Box open cluster and 47 Tucanae, a glittering globular cluster. 

As always, an hour and a half sped by in a blink. And I was just getting started! The moonless night was perfectly clear and even reasonably warm, and yet with midnight come and gone, it was time for bed. From Fiji to Aoraki, it had been a long, exciting day, but we had two days of adventure in store in the park.

A Star in the West

Ok, the original intent wasn't to name all the blogs this way, but it's worked out nicely. Please pretend to be amused by my creativity.

Somehow two days in Fiji felt like a week and this is just what I needed. Living in the northeast leads one to live life in the fast lane. On top of the pace of the city, my extended busy stretch at work has certainly raised the pressure level I feel about everything. Therefore, I've spent my days in Fiji telling myself relax, relax, relax. It turns out that the only time zone that was hard to acclimate to was going from Boston time to island time. Everything happens in its own way in Fiji; one would do well to go with the flow.

My two days here have given me a fascinating picture of a place that currently relies heavily on tourism but has a very long and multi-cultural history. There is much here beneath the surface that puzzles me; two days are just enough to show you how little you know about another culture.

I'll start with the second day as it's likely to be easier to me to explain and for readers to identify with. After toast and tea at my hotel in Wailoaloa Beach, I was picked up by a shuttle service to go to Port Denarau. The port area happens to be Nadi's resort area. As the shuttle pulled onto the Port's property, I observed a marked contrast to the scenery. An immaculately paved road was lined with lush palm trees and flowers next to a green golf course. The shuttle let us off at the marina, where South Coast Cruises had its terminal next to a touristy outdoor shopping area. 

The plan for the day was to take an "Ultimate Encounter Snorkeling with Sharks" trip. I would take a high-speed catamaran almost two hours out from Viti Levu (Fiji's largest island) out to the southern end of the Yasawa archipelago for a day of snorkeling, BBQ, and resort lifestyle.

In the blazing sun the catamaran set out at a brisk 22 knot clip over the Pacific waters. Indeed, the highest wave or swell I saw in my two days in Fiji was only ankle high. With remarkably low haze on the horizon, the ocean seemed as flat as a marble floor and stretched infinitely in all directions. You could see a bobbing coconut at a distance of a quarter mile. The catamaran made quick work of the water with not a single jolt or lurch. From the bow, one could watch the scene speed by. On the horizon, tiny and huge islands alike jutted out from the water. Most had sharp features and steep igneous cliffs, but some, like South Sea Island, were comically tiny bulges of sand somehow avoiding being swallowed up by the ocean. The water itself was mind-blowing in it's navy blue color. It was rich, vibrant, deep, yet also perfectly translucent. At one point on the way back, we made a pit stop to pick up passengers from a tiny island in the Mamanucas and the water was so clear you could see the bottom! Remember, this is the Pacific Ocean. It was so indescribably perfect.

When the catamaran reached the archipelago, the water at the Barefoot Kuata Resort, we made for land pirate-style: by disembarking from the catamaran onto landing vessels and motoring the last 200 ft to shore. Clamber out of the landing boat, splash splash splash, and up onto the beach. The resort was located on one of two adjacent volcanic islands with a narrow straight protecting the beach. The catamaran sped off through the straight on its long journey up the archipelago leaving us stranded like castaways. But the resort actually was marvelous. We followed the coral-strewn beach past a long series of cabanas for long-term guests. Literally at water's edge, a couple cute foot-long black-tip sharks patrolled the beach. At the end of the beach, before a towering black megalith of volcanic rock, we were welcomed into a beautiful pavillion by a four-part harmony with a guitar singing a polynesian melody. With a loud "BULA!" the Fijian word of greeting, it truly felt like paradise.

After some logistics, we were finally able to set out for snorkeling. We reboarded the landing craft and sped away from the resort back the way we came. It felt like we cruised much faster than the catamaran, but maybe it was that we were a mere arm's length from the immaculate water. Four boats in total, we sped for 15 minutes until curving around into some shallows. Shallows? In the wide open Pacific? Yes. 

Fins and snorkels donned, we splashed into the water. It was like bathwater. No shock to the system, no gasping. Just an immediate underwater world ready to explore. 

We had pulled up just next to a coral reef. The reef itself was within 7 ft of the water surface in places, but where we left the boats, the edge of the reef dropped off to a depth of maybe 30-40 ft. The reef and its edge were teeming with life! Three or four six-foot black-tip sharks were hanging around right next to the reef and were very comfortable around the snorkelers. Once or twice I even had them at arm's length. They were amazing to behold, amazing oceanic creatures.

But I was equally spellbound by the reef. Countless species of fish in all shapes and colors swam off the reef and within it. There were schools of striped fish in the open water and little clusters of neon fish in the nooks and crannies. Yellow, blue, black, silver, green: all colors were on display. The reef itself also was full of life. Nudibranchs were all over the place, investigating the many types of coral for goodies. I don't even know what to call them, but the reef was full of creatures of different shapes, doing their thing, having a great day in the sun. It was spectacular to behold.

There were only two bummers about exploring the reef. One, I am quite unpracticed with fins, so I was a bit like a bull in a china closet. Thankfully I never touched any of the reef, but I definitely came close, wobbling around clumsily. Two, apparently I failed at applying sunscreen and today I'm an all-around lobster. Two coats on my face proved insufficient and I am still doing the raccoon look. What a day.

An hour at the reef passed in a heartbeat. We returned back to the resort for a delicious buffet lunch and relaxation in the five mini pools and on the perfectly manicured lawn. Relaxing isn't my forte, but it was nice chatting with a couple from Melbourne who were on their honeymoon while a dozen Pacific Swallows darted all over the resort with their typical agility. All too soon, the catamaran reappeared and we headed back to Nadi in the golden hour of the afternoon.

That evening I enjoyed a traditional dish of grilled marlin in coconut sauce with steamed cassava and pineapple fritters at the hotel. A group of Fijians sang four-part harmony while playing guitars and ukeleles. A Fijian rum (Bounty!) and Coke made for a splendid end to a splendid day.

So that's the Fiji that everyone thinks about. Lush, tropical, coconut palms, and snorkeling. Absolutely amazing.

On the first day I got to see a lot more of what daily life in Fiji is more typically like. I gleaned some bits and pieces of info from some friendly taxi drivers. People have been on Fiji for thousands of years, having first sailed from elsewhere in the Pacific. In more recent times, there have been different waves of immigration due to British colonists, then people from India. Tourism of course makes up a significant part of the economy - visitors primarily come from Australia, New Zealand, China, and the US - but historically Fiji has relied heavily on subsistence farming. In the colonial era (ending in 1970), sugarcane was the primary export crop. Much of the western part of Viti Levu, where Nadi is, was clearcut for sugar. In addition, there are some other small manufacturing industries too.

Still today sugar is grown in Fiji. As in colonial times, almost all of it is exported and the locals rely in imported sugar for their own consumption. Nonetheless, Fijian sugar is available and I enjoyed trying it. The dark crystals are full of flavor, similar to a demerera or turbinado. I enjoyed it in Ceylon tea, which is the primary drink of choice, having been part of the Empire.

The clearcutting of the land around Nadi means that the area around the town is not the lush jungle landscape you would expect. Much of it looks like it's been aggressively farmed. I learned that much of the town's infrastructure was built in the 40s and 50s, so the concrete is significiantly deteriorated. Fiji relies heavily on foreign investment and programs like China's Belt and Road Initiative for development, but the majority of infrastructure sits waiting, slowly crumbling.

Where I stayed was a hotel in Wailoaloa Beach, a quarter-mile strip of beachfront hotels away from the resort area of Port Denarau. The street serving this beach was as very compact with old paving and old concrete buildings. Old cars lined the street, including a small taxi rank served by, basically, a tent with a painted sign. The scene on the whole was not so appealing. 

The taxi situation was so confusing to me in Nadi. Except for yellow cab drivers at the airport, most of the taxis seemed to be the drivers' unmarked personal cars. There were also, I think, driving services for hire, but I was certainly unsure as to what was what. When I came from the airport, the driver encouraged (pressured?) me to let him take me down to the popular Coral Coast and hour away and seemed to be feeling out how much I would pay for such a trip. He did acknowledge that it was the low season so I assume he was also trying to drum up business. 

This was the most uneasy I felt in a taxi, as I relied on the hotel's driver contacts for the rest of the trip. Nonetheless, I learned that it's common for the drivers to recommend further excursions. It became clear that they were trustworthy to take you directly to your destination, but they were certainly keen to compete for your business - I ended up with three drivers' phone numbers in my contact list!

Another common thing is for drivers to chauffer tourists on 2-4 hour driving tours to visit the sites. My hotel set me up with a 2.5 hour tour around the city, just me and the driver. We first went into Nadi town and drove the main strip. It was full of activity, but the stores and streetscape did not entice me to get out of the car. My driver did explain that with two rivers flowing through Nadi, the city often floods. I saw the rivers: brown and muddy. Not too fun. I did make a brief stop in town at Jack's of Fiji, a department store with fixed prices and some nice Fijian handicraft. Next it was on to a Hindu temple where for 5 Fijian dollars, I could walk around and explore, barefoot. The temple was ornately painted with amazingly ornate and brightly colored images from Hindu scripture. Much of this outdoor temple had been repainted in 2024 so the color was explosively bright and vivid. I realized I knew surprisingly little about Hinduism; I got a pamphlet I'll have to puruse when I get the time.

Fijians tend not to drink coffee, but my driver, Imran, told me that a coffee culture is slowly emerging. He said that frozen coffee is becoming especially popular because of its creaminess and cool temperature to offset the tropic heat. He also said basically everything in Fiji is made with coconut (Not sure if that was hyperbole) but that was likely also in their frozen coffee. So we stopped for a frozen coffee and a walnut and carrot cake before proceeding to the Garden of the Sleeping Giant.

As I finished my delicious coffee something occurred to me. The coffee was probably made with ice... and aside, I had already been drinking some tap water. Hm. As a foreigner, this was probably a really bad plan as my system wouldn't be acclimated to the bacteria in Nadi's drinking supply. Oh well, I thought, let's see what happens. So I stressed about that for nearly a full day and - thank goodness - nothing seems to have come of it. I felt, and still feel great. 

Between the taxis and the water-borne illness; figuring out who you can trust and where to leave your passport/money/technology while you snorkel, traveling sure has its stresses. The rewards are great, but you certainly test the risk assessments sometimes.

Anyway, the Sleeping Giant is what they call a small ridge of mountains north of Nadi. It's so called because the end of the ridge appears to be the upturned head and face of a giant. Forehead, brow, lips, and chin, it definitely has "Old Man in the Mountain" vibes. The botanical garden, located at the foot of the giant, was created by actor Raymond Burr. He cultivated an orchid collection that he tended to there. So I went and enjoyed the orchids and got really toasty from walking around the lush, humid forest.

Driving in and out to the garden gave me a good feel for daily life in the Nadi area. Lots of traffic as people went to and fro. Cows tied to posts next to the road to graze on the grass, and kids, barefoot, playing football or rugby in open fields. Plenty of ramshackle buildings and homes, but many people wore colorful clothing consisting of flowery dresses and shirts, or otherwise polyester rugby shirts. Along the road, an overgrown railbed featured a tiny locomotive for pulling flatcars of sugarcane into town.

So that was pretty much my excursion. 

My hotel itself was a small one, only about 12 rooms. Entering down a small hallway past a concierge, the hotel had a tiled common area that doubled as a restaurant. This area spilled out onto a patio with a beautiful pool and a couple hatched pavilions suitable for outdoor dining. Beyond was the beach, looking to the northwest. A small bay had a handful of moored sailboats sat perfectly still on the water like duck decoys. The water, perfectly placid was as warm as bathwater. Looking out, you could see the far distant Yasawa Islands way off on the horizon; the marble floor of the Pacific stretching infinitely in all other directions. I pondered whether I could see the curvature of the earth at the horizon, or if I thought it looked flat. I decided that I could understand why many people for thousands of years thought the latter.

Since I'd arrived at the hotel in the morning before my room was ready, I still hadn't settled in. So I grabbed my bag, went to my room, and finally relaxed. I was tired from the long trip, anxious about whether I'd get food poisoning, contemplative about the nature of "real" Nadi vs tourist Nadi, and apprehensive about how to prepare for the next day's snorkeling. But at least in the privacy of my hotel room I could decompress. It felt nice.

In closing on the Fiji chapter, I did go to dinner in the hotel restaurant that evening and enjoyed a piping hot chicken curry. Given the colonial influences, curry is very popular in Fiji. It naturally seemed like a twist on Indian curry - though I can't say why - but it was rich and flavorful and hot and delicious. A perfect meal looking over the Pacific and the most magnificent sunset really did the trick for getting me into the island spirit. I could get used to epic sunsets and delicious food every day! 

On Saturday morning I caught a ride to the airport for my next leg and I reflected on my time in Fiji. At first I wasn't sure I would come back based on my experiences in town, but the natural beauty of the marine environment, the friendliness of the people, and the amazing food ultimately changed my mind. Maybe one day I'll come and spend a full week here. There seems like so much to explore (hundreds of islands, in fact) - and once you acclimate to "Fiji Time", you find it's really quite a special place to be.

So Vinaka or thanks to those warm people I met in Fiji as I turn my eyes to the south, and New Zealand!

A Star in the North

 I woke up.

In the dim blue light of the plane, the glint of the steel hands of my analog watch appeared to say 2:30. Ugh. Only 2.5 hours since they turned the cabin lights off and 3.5 since we took off from Dallas. It was going to be a brutal 14 hour flight. The flight was nearly empty by all accounts. Most people were sat in rows by themselves, myself included. So I had set out the 3 pillows and stretched out across the seats with the plane blanket over me to get some sleep. But having woken up with a stiff hip, I happened to glance out the window.

Oh, the sky!

Like any good astronomer, I thought 'to heck with sleep, let's see what's out there.' Putting my nose to the window and pulling the blanket over my head, the blackness was consuming. With a new moon, the only light pollution was coming from the plane's beacons. Below, we appeared to be flying just above thin clouds. There was some haze around the wing tip and the effect was that the horizon was indistinguishable from the sky. Below was jet black. Across and above was star-studded inky black. And the stars near the horizon faded in and out of view mysteriously.

After getting my bearings, I noticed that Cassiopeia was just above the wingtip, the iconic W of the sky. 

"Wait, what? Where are we?" I immediately turned on the in-flight navigation and opened the Stellarium night sky app. You see, Cassiopeia is a polar constellation, so for it to be straight out from my window, rather than higher in the sky, we must be quite far south. And sure enough, we were southeast of Hawaii. It was only then that I saw the clock in Stellarium: 6:20 central time. I'd slept 6 hours. I had gotten the watch hands mixed up in the dark.

Feeling smug about my full night of sleep and having made it through half the flight, I returned to the window. As my eyes adjusted, the Milky Way was barely but distinctly visible passing through Cassiopeia. This portion of the Milky Way looks out towards intergalactic space rather than towards the galactic center, so the milky band is hard to see here even in the best of skies. Above Cassiopeia, Perseus filled the top of my window. To the left, towards the front of the plane, Andromeda and Ares could easily be seen. I think I could faintly make out the Andromeda Galaxy, but only with averted vision. To the right of Cassiopeia, the back of the plane, a dark empty-ish void where some faint stars presumably showed Camelopardalis. And far to the right, quite close to the horizon: Polaris. The north star. Most of Ursa Minor was below the horizon.

A searing blaze of light crossed from right to left through Perseus. A Leonid metorite. I wonder if I was the only human to see it? Not likely, but an interesting thing to think about. Maybe someone in British Columbia or Russia or Guam or Chile. Wouldn't that be cool?

I looked at my clock. 6:50 CT. Having pondered the cosmos for 40 minutes I decided to get some bonus sleep. Thankfully I could feel my hip again.

I woke up. That happens a lot on planes. 8:50 CT. Still pitch black out. One thing that's interesting about such a long westbound flight is that we follow the night: the entire 14 hour flight is in darkness. Looking out my window again, Perseus was square in view, having barely moved to the right, thereby signifying that the plane was kind of keeping up with the east-west movement of the stars. That said, Cassiopeia was gone and Perseus considerably lower in the sky. The Pleides star cluster and Taurus entered view from the top left of my window. The feeling was predominantly that the sky was setting in the north rather than the usual west! 

At time of writing, we've just crossed the equator and the north star has just gone out of view. If I were on a mountain I would be able to see all the stars from north pole to south pole. Out my northwest window it is still pitch black, but looking across the plane, the southeastern horizon is dark red and orange with the slowly advancing dawn. 10a CT Wednesday. 4a Thursday Fiji time. 3 hours left to go... and here comes breakfast.

A Star in the East

Hello friends.

I have returned! Did you miss me? 

When we last left our protagonist, he was musing on his time in Patagonia. Incredibly, that was two and a half years ago. Time flies.

There were several reasons I took that trip, but the biggest was to re-kindle a mindset of Thinking Big: I felt that I had lost an ability to think big and execute on something great. Thankfully, the goal was successful and the trip served as a springboard to relocating my life. It was a great trip with a great friend resulting on a new perspective - and creating new opportunities for myself.

I think about how much has happened since Patagonia: I moved, made new friends, took up sailing and west coast swing, and have taken on exciting new roles at work. It's been a massive learning experience, but also lots of fun. I am grateful every day for the opportunities I am getting in my new city.

But anyway, it's been too long and I've built up too much PTO while basking in the excitement of my new city. So I'm back - and ready for adventure. Join me for a special holiday journey like Frodo with the One Ring. You can even call me "Frodan Baggins", I don't mind. So where are we going? What's in store? Well yesterday when I left the office I looked overhead at the dusky sky and beheld a brilliant, unwaivering star drifting toward the eastern horizon. A holiday star in the East! It was a clearly a sign, so I shall follow it even to the ends of the earth...

(ok, it was really "just" the International Space Station, but please play along!)

That's all for now as it's time to board. Wish me luck and see you on "the other side"! Let's see how fast time really does fly.