11 February 2015 Cascade Creek DOC Camp, Eglington Valley, Fiordland

On waking, we found the camp and surrounding valley lying in a thin layer of mist, and high above, far from the solar panels for any time soon, the sun hitting the peaks of the Earl Mountains, or more specifically, Melita Peak which reaches an elevation of 1880 metres ASL. Over breakfast Chris decided that if we were to return to the same camp tonight we would seek a posse further out in the open which might be basked in that earlier sunlight .

With a cut lunch packed in the backpack, we drove further north three and a quarter kilometres up the east side of lovely Lake Gunn, then the western side of Lake Fergus and Lake Lochiel, soon arriving at The Divide, so named because this is the spot, albeit the lowest along the Southern Alps, the mountainous spine of the South Island, where rivers run either east or west. It is the lowest east-west pass, and the location of the shelter for walkers either starting or finishing the Routeburn, Caples or Greenstone Tracks. Apart from a shelter where one can wait for the scheduled shuttle buses, there is little more here than three or four raised long drop toilets, still with toilet paper at 9.45 am, but unlikely to be left any by 10 am. 

We parked the motorhome in the car park and set off up the first leg of the Routeburn Track. Last time we were here we walked to the Key Summit, the last part of this track branching off the Routeburn after a three quarter of an hour ascent. We walked the same route this morning, first under native fuchsia trees and then up the rocky uneven and steep track to the junction, but this time taking the downhill track to the Lake Howden Hut. This too was steep, but all downhill, which made me wary of the return. But what a treat to arrive at the lake! I had expected to find a shelter on bare alpine terrain, but here in this high valley surrounded in beautiful beech forest sits this absolutely gorgeous lake. Here and at the outlet where the clear water makes its way swiftly out and surely over a steep drop toward the Hollyford River, one is almost moved to strip off and plunge into the clear perfect water, especially with the sun shining so and the temperatures such that the top few layers of clothing have already been removed. That also assumes of course that the temperature of the water is warmer than a normal alpine flow, which I am sure it is not. We didn’t bother to test it, but chose to enjoy the visual feast instead. Here at the hut we struck up conversation with an incredibly talkative Austrian girl, travelling alone who had walked the Routeburn from the Queenstown end and was about to set off on the Greenstone. She had been here in New Zealand since just before Christmas and nearly every day had been occupied with walking New Zealand’s great and wonderful walks. Now there was dedication, and she was the first of several we met during the course of the day, New Zealanders and Americans, who had set aside their holiday time to walk, tramp, walk, and tramp some more. Our day’s ambulant outing was so very tame in comparison.

While Chris checked out the hut, so very different from when he did the Routeburn forty years or so ago, I sat at the lakeside and watched a grey warbler preen itself in the boughs of a beech tree; such a peaceful activity for both the bird and myself.

The three to four day Routeburn Track is one of the most popular rainforest / sub-alpine tracks in New Zealand. Nowadays, increased pressure on the track has necessitated a structured booking system, although walkers can walk independently provided they have booked and paid for huts or camps. A night at a hut costs $54 these days and a space to pitch your little tent, $18, but this walk unlike some of the others can be accessed by road from the Divide here on the Milford Road, or from the north eastern end of Lake Wakatipu beyond Glenorchy, north of Queenstown. According to Chris who has walked several of these great walks, albeit back when he was an unencumbered man, the Routeburn is by far and away the most beautiful. He asked me today if I would be interested to walk it if we were to do a guided tour where the heavy stuff is carried by young strong types. I would love to do this but I dislike the fact that one has to book, and the weather might be hideous for the whole duration. To pay out a thousand dollars or more each to trudge through the cold rain seems like a self-inflicted torture. 

After eating the Boston Bun we had brought along for morning tea, we set off back up the mountain to the Key Summit, the last part of the climb a very steep zigzag track shared with dozens of others with the same intent.

The Key Summit, at an elevation of 918 metres ASL, is so named because it is here that three important river systems rise. A little beyond the summit mark and above across a series of tarns and alpine bog, one has magnificent views of Marian Lake, the left overs of a giant glacier from high in the Darran Mountains (above the Homer tunnel). Ten to fifteen thousand years ago, this spot would have been beneath 500 metres of ice, but since then the glacier has split into three here at the Divide. The main river of ice continued down the Hollyford Valley to the sea, but glacial tributaries flowed over the Key Summit and down the Eglington and Greenstone Valleys.

We lunched high on the mountain, and then wandered about the Nature Trail, across the bog and through the stunted bog pines and equally stunted beech trees. The views were fabulous and so much better for the clear skies that remained so all day. We examined the lichens and algae on the rocks, the minute alpine plants, some carnivorous (as in insect eating), some delicate like the perfect buds of the gentians.

One of the most peculiar sights up there on the summit flat was a beautiful young American woman, her blond hair hanging down over her turquoise top, gazing out over a small tarn beside which she was seated. In her hands she held a two pronged fork, out in front of her as if she were silently calling the mountain gods. After a while she carefully placed it back into a fold out pouch, not unlike a carpenter’s apron, and took another. The ritual was repeated yet again and finally curiosity overcame Chris who asked her what she was doing. She explained they were tuning forks, all nine of them, and that she was using them to commune with nature, that the elements could create music from her action, and if that wasn’t entirely successful, birds were drawn to the sound. To demonstrate the sound of the fork, she lightly tapped it on a plastic fitting of her backpack, and we heard a charming ping. We thanked her for her time and moved off to make faces at one another, but not before noting the small tomtit that had alighted on the bush nearby. A modern day witch indeed, and even more amazing is the fact she had carried this weight with her across from North America when luggage restrictions are always such a stressful affair.

The track notes had suggested we would need four hours to complete the extended walk, and they were not too far wrong, although had we not spent so much time chatting with fellows on the track or listening to the incessant warbling of the small grey warbler on the way back, we might have been within the prescribed time. Once back at the camper, I was glad to remove my heavy boots and consume a few cups of hot coffee. It was only about six kilometres back to our camp of last night just south of Lake Gunn and we were soon set up in exactly the same spot as last night.

Tonight the wind has come up and a change in the weather is expected. It was with this in mind that I had suggested we do the more major walk today and we were duly rewarded. Perhaps tonight will be as cold as last, but then we are sitting at 480 metres ASL, so one cannot expect seaside summer temperatures. There seem to be as many camping parties in tonight as last, although most of last nights will have headed well away to discover other glorious parts of the beautiful country; they are working with time constraints, a very foreign concept to us these days.