GUIDED ROUTEBURN WALK The accumulation of beauty ... this magnificent trail...

Forest and Bird, Issue 186, 1 November 1972, Page 1 (Supplement)

GUIDED ROUTEBURN WALK The accumulation of beauty ... this magnificent trail...

Reprinted from NAC Airline Review

Arthur Feslier, NAC’s Public Relations Manager and editor of AIRLINE REVIEW, covered the 23 miles of the Routeburn Walk with the first party of the year.

The paragraphs which follow have been taken at random from his notebook: The south is a resplendent, sparkling place; each time I fly down here I am overwhelmed by the beauty of it, because there can be no island in all the world more replete with nature’s lavish generosity than New Zealand’s South Island. And this track —so high, so spectacular —is a man-made facility between the Milford road and Lake Wakatipu which in no way disfigures the splendour or immensity of the landscape. The Routeburn Walk, even on this first, mildly arduous afternoon, has lifted me to a new world —remote, glorious and almost untouched, it seems, by man’s hand: It is a splendid experience; I feel truly dwarfed by the gigantic mountains, the rivers, the waterfalls I have passed on this twisting trail. As I plodded this afternoon up the eight miles (and five hours) from The Divide —proudly labelled as the lowest pass on the Southern Alps, 1704 feet —I asked an irrational, unsettling question of a companion: “I wonder what’s happening in the world?” I queried. She looked at me with cool blue eyes which, as I

learned, have rested on many of the world’s most famous places. “Forget it,” she said. “Forget the world; it’s somewhere back there. Now you are here, on this trial; get the world out of your system.” And then, in a most curious reflection of my own thoughts she added, "Never have I seen anything like this .... this accumulation of beauty all in one place; and yet so close geographically to all those other and different things your country offers me . . .” She sought for a word as she contemplated the dramatic scenery: “It’s all so . . . sublime; that’s the word, sublime. It exalts me . . .” She was right, of course, The Routeburn Walk, clinging as it does to the steep sides of such huge hills, is a pathway from the twentieth century. It leads me back to the earth as God made it. Today I feel better for just having walked in this superb environment. Birds Along this magnificent and unique trail which climbs through the western rain forest to the clear, wide heights above the bush line where the snows lie thick in winter, I saw more birds in one day than in any place except Stewart Island. (And its welcome elevation lifts the Routeburn ‘way above the sandfly belt and yet within the range of numerous gaudy butterflies and dainty moths.) But it is the avian roll

call which delights any Audubonian: a trilling grey warbler; a gentle black and white tomtit; flashing, friendly fantails; echoing bellbirds (which to me sound like tuis) and prideful tuis (which sound like bellbirds); squeaky-winged pigeons, berry-full and corpulent; bobbing rock wrens; swift brown creepers; cheeky bush robins; piping pipits, and kaka, too, with their cries alternately raucous and gently liquid . . . and circling overhead, wide-winged gulls in from the sea; surprisingly, too, the übiquitous common blackbird. But, unfortunately shattering the quietness of the day, two high-flying Skyhawks in from Ohakea. At Routeburn Falls hut I was joined this evening by a noble nestor notabilis, an elderly fellow, I suspect, who knows a good thing when he sees it and has therefore taken up residence near the hut, aware that the procession of humans passing by will ensure his ample diet for the summer. This squawking kea entertained me energetically with his lively disportings on a flexible trapeze of overhanging branches. Upside down, hanging first by one leg and then by the other, and finally (“Look, Man, no hands”) by his sickle-like beak, he sought my appreciation with haughty look from beady eye as he waited the inevitable gift of a scrap of food. Fred, as he is known to Routeburn walkers, is recorded in the visitors’ book. Wrote some passing tyro-traveller who —imprudently but invitingly —hung out his laundry overnight :“Some hook-nosed bastard ate my sox!” (As a sidelight on the efficiency of the Routeburn organisation I should mention that each hut is equipped With a “kea-proof” boot box as protection against this New Zealand mountain parrot.) Comfort The evenings in the comfortable insulated cosiness of the huts at Lake Mackenzie and Routeburn Falls are times for talking and laughter and the camaraderie which comes from a group effort. The guides, young men of remarkable strength and vigour, routinely call each other by radio to Queenstown base and the other hut, reporting on track conditions, food stocks, weather prospects and if tomorrow’s jelly has set yet. And then, inevitably, the conversation is about the history of this trail, of the men who made it and the reasons why, and of its future. The atmosphere in the relative luxury and undoubted comfort of the metal buildings induces a respect for those earlier walkers who knew nothing of the hot showers, the country-style meals, the butane stoves, the relaxing beds, the electric lights and almost all the best facilities of home which have been helicopted to these remote places. Equated with the trials and efforts of the pioneers my 23 miles along the way are an easy path; and, indeed, because I am fit enough I suppose, my pack feels light; even steep climbs and leg-testing descents make me physically relaxed rather than tired; and importantly, I am mentally rested too, rather than concerned about affairs which a few days ago loomed so large .... Things fall into perspective among these massive hills. Lake Mackenzie hut, even at about 3,000 feet, lies in a valley. And that is the point about the Routeburn Walk —it is high. Spacious is the apt word to describe this environment. I sense the altitude rather than acknowledge it, because here at Mackenzie we are surrounded by even higher hills; hills which we cross tomorrow .... Prayer “Dear Lord, please help me lift my heavy feet; I can put them down all right, but lend me your aid on

the way up." It’s a prayful plea from a previous visitor noted in the Mackenzie visitors’ book. It raises a point, though: footwear is important. I have shod myself most comfortably in two pairs of woollen socks and the same strong basketball boots, with an extra insole, which carried me over the Milford Track last year. Some people prefer light tramping boots but I liked my basketball footwear. They are ideal. I awoke this morning to a strange mixture of noise and smells: the raucous, querulous cries of keas joyously cascading down the roof, mingled with the sizzling sound and odour of frying bacon —and the pungency of brewing coffee which in these parts I take strong and sweet and thick with powder-made milk. Along the way this morning I met two young Canadians tall, bronzed and speaking beautifully. (I’m sure that Canadians have the finest voices.) We sat at the trail’s edge and looked back at Lake Mackenzie now far below. We talked of Canada—which I love dearly—and comparisons were a certainty. Said one, “Your New Zealand mountains beat ours all the way.’’ And the other, “So do your huts; they are excellent and typical of the way you Kiwis care for your wilderness.” I sought for something in return. “Well,” I said lamely, “we have nothing to compare with Niagara Falls or with Quebec City, or Toronto’s City Hall.” “True, true; but you are too kind; the comparisons are not valid.” I went on my way, up the great winding track suddenly energised by the encounter. We lunched this day at more than 4000 feet next to a tumbling stream which —I do not exaggerate in the high, clear air as though it were molten metal. It is bordered by green-brown snowgrass and tough, tough hebes. Suddenly, my mind switched back over decades and I recalled a story my father used to tell me about a fairytale character named Gluck. It was The King of the Golden River, a fascinating boyhood story which could have been set right here overlooking the Hollyford Valley in New Zealand. But at the noon-hour with the summer sun so high the turbulent stream was silver, not golden. I should return at sunset because then, I suspect, it becomes as gold. Question: Is there any finer hot beverage than billy tea brewed from the snow-fed streams of New Zealand alps? Answer: No. Heights Near Harris Saddle (4,190 feet) I climbed through the last of the winter’s clinging snow to Conical Peak and stood there surrounded by a true panorama of such extent, such glittering brilliance that I am incapable of finding words to describe it. The waves of the Tasman Sea washed the distant beach as they broke at Martin’s Bay (my next walk, for a certainty) and the encircling mountains about —and below me —stood out against the sky with every rock, every outcrop, every snow slope etching its detail on my mind. This scramble to the top of Conical Peak is an optional, complimentary extra: a two-hour toiling excursion which proves that working hard for your rewards brings the greatest satisfactions. I know that the name of the place is Conical Hill; but anything that high, (4970 feet) that steep—and so sumptuously scenicdeserves a more appreciative title than hill. Today I have joined an exclusive and entirely privileged minority group: those who have witnessed the exquisite loneliness and loveliness of Lake Harris. This high-level source of the Routeburn River is cradled by the surrounding mountains as though in the palm

of a mighty hand. It is rich in colour, in unmeasured depth and gentleness—and this shimmering little waterway should be renamed descriptively. Lake Emerald would do nicely. To be truthful, I had never heard of it until I topped Conical Peak and saw it just below, glinting in the sun and tossing back at me its innumerable reflections from a million moving facets. Lake Harris in itself would be sufficient reward for the four-day Routeburn Walk . . . . . . but its waters become the Routeburn River and tumble down in a series of shimmering and enthusiastic cascades, white, tossing, ebullient and vigorous all at once. The river proves that we have crossed the mountains, for until now all the waters have flowed to the west. But, at Harris Saddle the Routeburn runs east and we are to follow it downwards; down through its meadows —where it flows so gently —and through its gorges—where it is angry and rough in its confining walls and battling against enormous ancient boulders —until we reach Lake Wakatipu and the walk’s end, at a little over 1000 feet altitude. And on this final day, joyously, I am among my birds again: parakeets now, and a robin who lands inquisitively on an outstretched stick, and —unseen, to my regret —a shining cuckoo with his plaintive, repetitive cry. And, also, the flashing sight of timid deer, apprehensive of my approach. Brevities: Routeburn is a botanist’s delight; flowers, shrubs, trees, grasses and lichen grow in profusion; I wish I knew their names and was able to record them all . . . The sound of tumbling water is

everywhere along the track; seldom is there silence; but the noise is a natural sound, and I like it . . . The track—now over a century old for most of its length—is well-formed, graduated and clearly visible; it would be impossible to become lost, except in unexpected fog or snow . . , The logistics of servicing the two huts by helicopter with everything from pot-cleaners to electric generators is a triumph for Jim Gilkison who conceived the scheme of opening this trail for the ordinary visitor; what he has done is a true example of Kiwi do-it-yourselfness: he has literally opened up a pathway to pleasure for us all . . . Jim mentions that the oldest person to walk the Routeburn was over 80 (he found it tough going) and the youngest about ten; for the fit fifties it is not always as easy as a neighbourhood stroll —but it is infiniely more pleasurable ... I am intrigued by the high-level mountain tarns; they lie there in their little saucers, surrounded by snow-grass verges, looking brown and placid until I peer into the depths and see a detailed mirror-image of clouds and mountains and rock and snow . . . and my own sunburnt face . . . At night along the way, it’s early to bed; but a quiet stroll beforehand reveals that the area is alive with unseen creatures of the night; and a lonesome morepork mournfully calls goodnight . . . Deep in the placid pools of the Routeburn I see trout, almost motionless, almost invisible against the stony river floor . . . We pass a waterfall; elsewhere in the world it would rank high as a destination in its own right; but here, in the immensity of these mountains, it falls eternally, unnamed . . . It’s good to know that at night we are well-fed, well-housed in fine company. Different Routeburn is different: to compare it with other walks would lead me into the danger of implying that one New Zealand walk is easier or more attractive or more efficient than another. Of the two I have made in the past year Milford and Routeburn —I can say this: they are complementary rather than competitive; Routeburn is different: to compare it with other walks Milford is predominently in valleysand attractive; they require I think, an equal standard of fitness to do them without strain. Each is utterly enjoyable. They can be taken separately or joined into one glorious adventure among the New Zealand hills and mountains. But there is something I yearn to do soon. I will go back to the Routeburn and walk that mountain track again, but I will do it the other way: from Wakatipu to The Divide. Because this is a two-way trail and I want to relish its challenge from the opposite direction Anyway, I must get back to my Lake Emerald —surely, the lovliest little lake in New Zealand nestling in an area which —as my friend explained—exalts one with its beauty.