25 February 2015 - Franz Josef, West Coast

Today we have probably travelled one of the longer distances of our trip since being in the South Island, a distance of 236 kilometres from the top of Lake Wanaka through to Franz Josef, the most northern of the two glaciers that draw the tourists here on the West Coast. It is still only mid-afternoon and we are parked up in the excellent NZMCA park, surrounded in high West Coast bush, and even higher West Coast mountains, and apart from the fact I can see the sun catching the snow on the glacier high up to the south and hear the frequent whirring of helicopter blades as the operators ferry their paying passengers to and fro, we could be far away from civilisation, even though we are walking distance to the village.

Last night the van rocked and rolled in the wind, and this morning there was little abatement; grey skies did not suggest any improvement and the weather forecasts even less. We left immediately after breakfast heading further north up the Makarora Valley, this time not stopping as we have on past trips to take the short walk to the Blue Pools. No sooner did we cross the Haast Pass at 725 metres ASL, that the rain commenced. We looked at each other and laughed; we were now on the West Coast which is renowned for the rainfall that keeps everything so lush and green. On the descent we did not stop at the Fantail Falls, the Gates of Haast or the Thunder Creek Falls, all well worth visiting for the first time even in the rain, but not for the third time. It was near here, at the Diana Falls, that two Canadian tourists were swept to their deaths by an avalanche just last year, a tragedy and a warning that this road is a treacherous one at times.

At 100 metres ASL where the Haast River converges with the Landsborough River, the road continues out to the river entrance at Haast Village at a more gentle undulation. It was on this last stretch of road we encountered many cyclists, none looking like Grand Tour contenders, all rain sodden and some looking like they wished they hadn’t started. Fortunately they were cycling upriver so they caused no frustration to The Chauffeur.

We paused at the Village to check whether their newspapers had come in; evidently not, a single copy of yesterday’s Christchurch Press remained. We continued on north, now following the coastline, although that too was obscured by the heavy dark clouds. There was little point in checking out the views at Knight’s Point or redoing the lovely little walk at Ship Creek or the Monro Track out to the beach a little to the west of Lake Moeraki. We remarked at the broody beauty of this lake as we drove past, but then much of the landscape of this coast is like that, as if holding deep secrets not to be revealed to the likes of us.

Lake Paringa is a small lake a little more than ten kilometres further north, full of trout and salmon if the signs are to be believed. What it does have a lot of, and the Asian tourists who called in while we were there will attest this, is sand-flies, in their thousands. The Great Australian Wave to ward off flies is iconic; so must be the Great New Zealand West Coast Wave to ward off the sand-flies, aka black flies. We have stayed here in the past, but today we called in to have lunch, remaining in the motorhome protected by our screens. It is an incredibly beautiful spot, particularly so today as the rain mist rose up in the valleys above us.

Travelling on we soon found an improvement in the weather, enjoyed the beach scene at Bruce Bay and the bush and rural scenes that continued as we did, travelling up Highway 6 which runs more or less north east up the coastline. At Fox Glacier I picked up the day’s newspaper and a local map, then we pressed on the further twenty five kilometres to Franz Josef, without bothering to call at Lake Matheson, renowned for its stunning reflections on the right kind of day. A walk around the lake is lovely at any time, but a third time should also be rewarded with those Alpine scenes mirrored in the lake. I should note too that we have walked all the free walks about these two famous glaciers, and the weather today did not entice us to repeat these.

But we were delighted to find this little refuge from the road, in itself not that lovely, but surrounded in much of what we love about the West Coast. There might have been six camping parties when we arrived; now as I look out the window to revise the count, there are thirteen including ourselves, and the day is not done. In the meantime the cloud has come down over the glacier, although the sun is shining down on our solar panels which will make for happy campers, or at least the menfolk, who spend so much time worrying about such matters.

We have been in touch with my parents who are currently at Greymouth, and arranged to rendez-vous with them at Hokitika on Friday. We have extended an invitation to dine in our yellow room, thus named for the cushions on the couches. The front lounge, the blue room, will serve as the pre-dinner drinks lounge. How exciting it will be to entertain, and doubly so given who our guests will be!

24 February 2015 - Boundary Creek Reserve DOC Camp, Lake Wanaka

Yesterday yet another gorgeous day dawned, the sun rising over the range, the ducks lined up at the door for the end of last week’s sliced bread and the young uninhibited tourists stripping off their wet swim wear to change into something comfortable for their breakfast of noodles and bananas. Alas by the time I made my way over to the toilet block, the suntanned lithesome girls were queuing out the door; I was glad I could retreat to our own facilities.

We had a list of to-dos for the morning, none of them tourist related; laundry, grey waste disposal, water refilling, grocery shopping and the purchase of timber. 

We found the laundry at the far end of town between the light industry and surveyor’s office; a spacious and very clean establishment, with a small book exchange, excellent parking, many comfortable seat and a clean table to fold one’s washed clothing and linen. The only negative was that their prices were the same as those in Queenstown that we had checked and rejected as being too expensive; $5 for a wash and $6 for thirty minutes drying, however given that the machines are all well maintained, and clean (which I seem to be over-emphasising) the completed task worked out as reasonable as when one is required to feed the machines with less coinage.

Cromwell’s New World is modern, spacious and also has excellent parking, but the price of the fruit and vegetables was atrocious and as we ticked off the items on our rather long list, we were appalled at the prices we were obliged to pay. We should have done our big shop the previous day at Frankton, although there the parking is not as good.

At the Mitre 10 we received brilliant service, the yardman giving Chris a couple of offcuts of timber which made the saw and nails we bought seem all the cheaper. Back along the lake, we parked up near a solid table and bench affair, put the awning out and Chris constructed some very cunning levelling ramps, more permanent and functional than the plastic ones we have, although so much heavier.

It was still early afternoon, we consulted our journey ahead and the likely overnight camps; Chris decided we should return to our lakeside camp at Lowburn Harbour and worry about tomorrow tomorrow; manana le manana. We found yet another spot squeezed between a couple of campervans just a metre from the shore, and discovered our neighbour immediately to the front was a women of more than middle years with four, yes four! dogs; three little white bichon frises or similar and one King Charles Spaniel, and every time we dared to speak loud enough for our voices to be heard beyond the walls of our camper, they yapped. Needless to say when we ventured out of the interior 31 degree temperature in our togs to test the lake waters, they yapped even more. Stupid woman! Fancy travelling in a motorhome with four yappy dogs!

It took us a long time to travel the distance from the pebbly shore into the depths of the lake, deep enough to cover all the bits that cause consternation as one undertakes slow emersion into cold waters, but once there, we lingered and revelled in our daring, glad to have bothered at least once to “swim” the waters of the Dunstan.

After drying off and delighting in the fact that our togs had not rotted in the interim since our last swim, taken either in Broome or the shark infested waters of the Bonaparte Archipelago eighteen months ago or so, we opened a bottle of red purchased in the morning, before dining on a jointly prepared feast. It was a little after this that Chris vocalised his concern; he wondered if we was suffering another bout of gout. We rejected the possibility of fish sauce, oysters and other delectable shell fish, all forbidden foods in his diet, and decided that it sadly must be the result of our return to the fruits of the vine. We have yet to decide what we will do with that information.

After yet another excellent night, apparently shared with in excess of seventy other camping parties, we headed north up Lake Dunstan, driving through extensive vineyards all swathed in bird proof netting. Soon we passed the road that comes in from the north east, that through from the Lindis Pass, and before we knew it we were passing Wanaka’s zany Puzzling World and the parking area for the walk to the top of Mt Iron 548 metres ASL, one we did on a previous visit but not particularly appealing today. We called into DOC’s local headquarters, an excellent information and general educational centre, seeking either encouragement or the opposite for our intended drive up the road to Mt Aspiring on the western side of Lake Wanaka. Some years previously we had driven part of the way, as far at the Mt Aspiring Station, across some of the most hideously corrugated road ever encountered. Chris hoped that the road would have been upgraded to a more acceptable level, and that this time, we would drive to the end and enjoy the natural wonders of that corner of the region. Alas, the assistant in the centre, a woman I remembered from our previous visit, could not vouch for the condition of the road although she did paint the available walks in good light. I could see that Chris was not keen to expose our classy new camper to possible damage, however I played along and we left her believing we had changed our mind about staying on. 

We continued on into town, parking up on the spacious foreshore and dumped our bags of rubbish, some recyclable and some not, and walked up into the compact streets to check out the supermarket and the cinema. We found that Clint Eastwood’s “American Sniper” was playing at 12.30 pm so retired to our lakeshore posse, lunched early and were back in time to spend the early part of the afternoon catching one of the recently applauded cinematic events. 

This had been on Chris’s wish list, and I was not averse to attending; we were duly rewarded. “American Sniper” is a very good movie, sympathetic to the fact this is a tribute to a soldier recently assassinated leaving a widow and children.  The noise and slaughter of war is never attractive, but then it should not be portrayed otherwise; war is hideous but a part of human existence. We found the movie poignant, well caste and altogether worthy of the artistic nominations it had received.

The Cinema Paradiso is a small two theatre movie house with big comfy couches and equally comfy leather loungers for those who prefer to sit alone. The Paradiso is as much about eating and drinking as visual entertainment; the café and bar serve meals, homemade ice-cream and fresh “cookies” before, during and after the movie. Amongst the many hard-case announcements before the feature is one advising that intermission, that old fashioned “half-time” – remember? will be when the screen goes black, and so it was. We all filed out, all five of us, to relieve ourselves and some to eye up the menu at the bar. And when the manageress had done a head check to see that we were all back in the theatre, ready to watch the rest of the movie, she signalled the technician and away we went. Interestingly, and probably not surprisingly, Lonely Planet lists this as one of Wanaka’s star attractions.

Back down at the shore, we phoned my parents to check their whereabouts, frustratingly close and yet so far, and send a text “postcard” to my older son who spent his honeymoon in this lovely spot almost nine years ago. Then we set off away from Wanaka, crossing the Clutha River which exits the lake a few kilometres to the north east, then on to Lake Hawea, on up the western shore of this lake, crossing the narrow isthmus between the two lakes before continuing on up the north eastern shore of Lake Wanaka, until we arrived at this DOC camp on the lake shore, already busy with a variety of camping parties.

Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea, on the map, appear to be very similar in size, although it is the former that tourists bother much with. Lake Hawea is 393 meters deep, 34 kilometres long and 342 metres ASL. A good part of it extends beyond sight of all but those who run the high country stations or seek to climb the high peaks with names like Dingle Peak at 1,833 metres ASL or the McKerrow Ranges. Lake Wanaka is of a more interesting shape, The Peninsula extending out into the lower section of the lake and two significant islands taking up other surface area, which makes any comparison with Lake Hawea somewhat problematic. Lake Wanaka is 311 metres deep, 45.5 kilometres long and is at 277 metres ASL, these facts of no use when trying to ascertain which is the larger. Later I learned that Wanaka is in fact larger than Hawea, the former covering an area of 192 square kilometres and the latter, 141 square kilometres. 

The outflow of Lake Hawea is the river of the same name, on the southern edge and provides both a power source and an outflow control for the waters that provide power further down the Clutha River. On the past two trips through here, we saw the lake level particularly low and unattractive; today those low levels had either settled and developed to be the new normal or were higher. Today we did not stop to measure.

Here at Boundary Creek, our own camp is in a least attractive spot, but without the likelihood of being locked in by anyone else’s tardy departure tomorrow. There is only one small corner of the camping area that could be considered lovely, and half a dozen motorhomes commandeered that place earlier in the day, if not days before. The rest of us are just glad to have a low cost park.

22 February 2015 - Lowburn Harbour, Lake Dunstan, Central Otago

Here we are again, three weeks to the day, situated on the banks of Lake Dunstan. I had been quite convinced we would have been somewhere along the road to Wanaka by tonight, the road across the Crown Range, perhaps even parked up beside the wonderful historic Cardrona Hotel, but no, plans changed and mainly because my dear husband is set on laying his hands on some more levelling blocks.

With good internet last night, I searched for suppliers within the Queenstown region, to no avail, then googled “RV supplies” and came up with one Queenstown Caravan Park and a UK Caravan agency, neither sounding very likely but contacted all the same. Both emailed back politely attempting to explain why their businesses should be thrown up in such a search. Chris is now convinced that the suspension problems we had with the previous motorhome were in part the result of inadequate blocking on the inside rear duel wheels. He does not want the same to happen to the new one, although other factors must surely be at play, and the only way to keep a vehicle in pristine condition is to wrap it in cotton wool and store it somewhere safe.

Anyway the final solution was to make some from timber sought from a hardware store, and when I asked him last night, “You were intending to drive through to Wanaka on the Crown Range route rather than the longer via Cromwell?”, he jumped at the suggestion of Cromwell remembering the hardware stores and the fact that parking and traffic congestions are not even considerations in this central Central Otago town. I immediately thought of other positives; the fact that a laundry in Cromwell was surely less costly than one in Queenstown and that we could last another day without fresh produce. And so here we are.

The sun arrived in Kinloch quite late, although not as late as in Glenorchy on the other side of the lake, and the heavy clouds on the summit of the Richardson Mountains didn’t help, but arrive it did, lighting up our beautiful lakeside spot near 9 am. Other campers rose with bleary eyes and made their way up to The Lodge, returning with their lattes and ristrettos in paper cups. Women made their way along the willow lined shore to the smelly long drop still in their pyjamas, something I cannot understand in any female over the age of about twelve. We headed off before the jet boat captains had finished cooking their breakfasts on fancy barbeques brought in for the occasion.

We drove up the west side of the lake, crossed the Dart River, passed under Mt Alfred, crossed the Rees, then travelled south to Glenorchy, a distance of just twenty six kilometres, but every kilometre just stunning in the morning sunshine. 

Pulling into the Glenorchy Garage, we were delighted to find a copy of yesterday’s Weekend Otago Daily Times. The proprietress was apologetic; I explained that it was that we had hoped for, but thought they would all be sold out. We drove on to the lake shore, where we had lunched a few days ago and set to and washed the dust off the camper, or at least Chris washed it, I carted water from the cold lake.

Still mid-morning, we were soon back on the road and heading further south down the lake shore toward Queenstown, the views wonderful, the trip better for the fact the only cyclists today were less than half a dozen would-be contenders for the Tour de France, or Queenstown. We found our way to the dump point up on the hillside, lined up and duly dealt with the necessaries, then headed off to Frankton, back to the New World at the Remarkables Park Shopping Centre where we were sure of buying one of the best French bread sticks in New Zealand, in our opinion.

A walk around Lake Hayes had been on Chris’s must-do lists for the Queenstown area, so there we headed, first to the Pavilion and Showgrounds which we found crowded out for an event, one involving lots of small children and equally small bicycles and tri-cycles. The next access to the lake, Bendemeer Bay was shrouded in low trees and the next, to the North Lake Hayes Picnic area perfect and the area at the bottom of the narrow gravel road, wide and welcoming. Better still was the discovery that a small area was now available for self-contained motorhomes to overnight. This did not fit with our current plans but we stored the information for future use.

We lunched on that delicious bread then set off for a taste of the newly opened walk. Looking for the access entry, we had realised that much of the circuit was along existing roads to bypass properties with riparian rights to the lake, and this did not really meet with our expectations of a DOC established walk around a lake, so we decided to do a small sample of the walk in a more naturel corner. We set off down the eastern shore of the lake, past the willows and up past the hawthorn bushes well-laden with berries, and a host of other long established European scrubby plants, walking only as far as the most elevated point of that shore, then turned and made our way back to the camper. Even from this small section of the walk, we were able to enjoy the views south to the Remarkables and east to the hills behind Arrowtown. We were also delighted to see so many locals making the most of the reserve; walking their dogs, swimming, kayaking, cycling, walking, running and picnicking. This was yet another positive to counteract our previous negative attitude toward the Queenstown area, from a motor homer’s point of view.

The road through to Cromwell from Queenstown follows the Kawarau River, passing through the Gibbston Valley, known as the Valley of the Vines, squeezed between the wild turbulent river and rugged schist mountains, the Carrick and Horn ranges to the south. There are at least eight well known vineyards in the valley, a cheesery and much more recently a new cycle trail. Here too is to be found the world famous and first commercial bungy jump, established by AJ Hackett and his side kick Henry van Asch, although Mr van Asch’s name is only evident at the exit to mark the vineyard one might feel bound to visit after such an adventure. 

The Bungy is situated at the historic 1880 Kawarau Bridge, twenty three kilometres east of Queenstown and was set up, first as a trial run in 1988, and then more permanently after the founders and the Department of Conservation came to an agreement, in 1990. It was only about five years after that when my father made his leap from the bridge, shocking us all as we viewed the obligatory video, and then about ten years later, my husband followed suit. Chris was very underwhelmed by the experience but that was probably because he had flung himself out of aeroplanes thirty years ago, parachuting in the Northern Territory.

We pulled in today to enjoy the entertainment. Fortunately one does not have to pay for the pleasure of watching people challenge their fears but then it makes for free promotion from the operator’s point of view; Chris asked me if I wanted to do it and I made it clear that I absolutely did not wish to do so. Zip-lining did appeal, and I had googled this activity in Queenstown a few days earlier, finding the operator with whom I had zip-lined in Whistler, Canada did indeed operate here but at a price that I could not justify. I was more impressed with Hackett’s zip-line, advertised at about $50, far fairer. But today when I saw the line, today closed for training purposes, I was most unimpressed; the experience would be only marginally more exciting than the flying fox at the children’s playground in Henderson, West Auckland. 

After watching half a dozen satisfied jumpers, we continued on our way, past all those vineyards and then descending steeply, more than I had remembered the road taken many years before. As we came on down one steep section, ahead I noted the speed advice signs at 75 kph followed by 65 kph; we were doing about 90 kph. I vocalised my concern to Chris who politely told me to stop the back seat driving, however as we turned at the bottom, he had to brake quite sharply as I expected, and one of the kitchen drawers shot out and hung at a precarious angle out of the hole. There was nowhere to stop or pullover, I told him to carry on and crawled back to rescue the rawer, lowering it onto the floor and crawling back to my seat. When we were finally able to stop and we made a hasty investigation, the damage seemed minimal, but later when we did arrive at our camp and take the time to sort the mess, we found the rarely-if-ever-non-breakable Pyrex casserole dish smashed. I was surprised that it was this and not the poor quality plastic beakers and wine “glasses”. We will have to buy a new one tomorrow if such an item exists in Cromwell, and sadly there was nothing wrong with the dish before the accident.

Interestingly neither of us has uttered blame on the other; he knows it was his erratic driving and I am pretty sure it was me who left the drawer unlocked when I had a glass of water after our walk at the lake. Both culpable and both mum!

Tonight as the sun disappears behind the ranges, there are probably more campers in than there were when we were last here. It is a very popular place, and deserves to be.

21 February 2015 Kinloch Foreshore Recreation Reserve DOC Park, Lake Wakatipu

Tigers for punishment that we are, we set off after breakfast for the walk about Lake Sylvan. This suggests it is a walk around the lake; it is not. The two hour walk which starts at yet another swing bridge over the Routeburn River leads one through old moraine river terraces and very old tall red beech to the lake, and then back along a long abandoned 1920s tramline loop. Even today, almost one hundred years on, some of the “sleepers” are still evident and the timber was then not treated as it is today!

We saw kaka, fantails, South Island Robins and Riflemen, and heard bellbirds far up in the tree canopies. Massive trees have fallen since we were last through, and some so recently that the trunks still lie across the track. The pathway sometimes takes one the length of a fallen log and mostly along paths uneven with roots. Here the soil must be quite shallow because the buttress roots are large and tenuous on their hold, disrespectful of the needs of the clumsy walker. We noted more than one tree that must have been quite rotten when it fell, and the impact of the fall has shattered it to pieces.

Yesterday we read that the long tailed bats or pekapeka live in the rot holes of old beech trees, unlike their Australian cousins who like to hang upside down in public view. Apparently up to two hundred can roost inside any one tree; this we found amazing! Today we wondered whether any of these marvellous old trees was home to a whanau of pekapeka.

I was particularly delighted when we paused to “chat” to a friendly Robin, and to attempt the inevitable photograph. He was as inquisitive as we were, and when I crouched down and scratched lightly on the ground, he came up and darted his strong little beak onto my fingers. In fact, “delighted” just does not describe my response to this amazing experience; my skills as a word-smith are inadequate. 

At the lake we paused to enjoy the scene, rather dull today because of the cloudy skies forecasted to bring rain by the afternoon. There is now a viewing platform at the lake edge, but aside from that, access to the lake and any “beach” is limited, and even when you do find a nice looking spot, would you want to hang around long enough for the sand-flies to find you?

Back at the camp, we lunched and filled with water, assuming that without a “Do not drink this water” sign, it must be potable. Then it was time to leave this lovely little DOC camp, a vast improvement on that at Twelve Mile Delta, and head south, this time down the western side of Lake Wakatipu to Kinloch which I mentioned in a recent posting in relationship to steamer boat access in bygone years.

On the road down we passed a helicopter operating base, albeit very temporary and here we saw the massive plastic toilet waste tanks that DOC bring down from the loos up on the alpine tracks rather than allow the waste to despoil the environment. Yesterday we had been fascinated by one of these toilets cantilevered out over a rocky face, half way up the Routeburn canyon. Below were rails on which the full tank could be moved out and the empty one inserted just as one might install a new water filter under the sink. While we had picnicked up at the Routeburn Flats Hut, a helicopter had passed high above us, carrying a long pipe-like shape, perhaps a culvert, and later on the return, a large tank like load that we guessed to be a full loo. Fascinating, eh?

Kinloch really is a charming spot, with little here but the YHA Lodge, the old wharf and a strip along the lakeside and end of the Dart River for a few campers DOC has the lodge look after. It is also the gateway to the Caples and Greenstone Tracks that intersect the Routeburn. Today, a Saturday, it is also the haunt for Queenstown jet boat owners who want to show their captaincy skills, or lack of, to their visitors. This may impress some, but not us when we see children leaping from the wharf and swimming through areas the sky-larkers choose to do their water churning stops.

The rain has been late to arrive, and then does not seem much. As I write this, I have a beautiful view out the rear window of the motorhome, straight down the lake, past the islands across to the mountains beyond Queenstown.  We will have to leave here tomorrow and return to some level of civilisation; we need to dump and to replenish our fresh fruit and vegetable supplies, but in the meantime I shall enjoy this little spot of paradise.