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In story terms, New Zealand’s Milford

Track is beautifully structured in four acts.

In scenic terms, it won’t fit in the camera.

As far as wilderness experiences go,

keep your towel dry!

The Milford TrackA Fairy Storyphotos and words by Victoria Osborne

additional photos by Felix Millar

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Once upon a time... we started planning for our April ‘09 trip.

We’re Australian, and after reading the solemn safety advice

described by the New Zealand Department of Conservation

(DOC) on their excellent web site (www.doc.govt.nz), we decided

we didn’t want to be known as the dumb Australian tourists who

had to get air lifted off the track because of a twisted ankle.

Prevention. Who to turn to? Who could help us? We joined

the Victorian National Parks Association (VNPA). This worthy

The Werribbee Gorge State park in Victoria was dry. Rabbit pooh, sheep skulls and a howling gale made our walk memorable.

institution runs a bushwalking

activity group out of Melbourne.

These dedicated walkers and

environmental advocates have

years of experience amongst

them and we tapped them like

rubber trees.

Not only fitness is

required for the Milford, but

some sort of bush sense is

imperative. Knowing what to

wear can be a matter of life

and death. The type of gear

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available in those big camping shops is confusing and the best

advice you can get is right there next to you when you go for

a few short day walks with a bushwalking club. There’s bush

knowledge about blisters and recipes for scroggin and suitable

quick drying fabric and trimming your toe nails that you’d never

know if you’re just talking to salespeople. Regular bushwalkers

love their particular trousers or leg warmers or gaiters or hats for

their own personal reasons. (As far as our personal preferences

go, I’m not going to advertise but there is a New Zealand

company working in merino you might be interested in exploring.

If you were to travel through the Antarctic in a boat encountering

frozen waters you might require one of these. Some of their

products are essential for your comfort though I haven’t tried the

underpants. Yet.)

The Brisbane Ranges National Park in Victoria endured a bush fire in 2007. It’s still recovering. The walk is dry, rocky and suffers from root rot.

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There is also the notion of the Alpine walking pole. If used

correctly two of these light, telescoping sticks can support up

to forty percent of your body weight. One stick will assist you in

balance, checking the depth of streams and prodding relatives for

another piece of chocolate when you can no longer speak.

The oldest walkers in the VNPA, some we suspect to be

on the wiser end of their seventies, are terrific advertisements for

walking – beating young whippersnappers half their age – whilst

carrying tents and food on overnight walks. One gentleman we

met explained it was not only the exercise and the careful placing

We walked along the Razorback to the top of Mount Feathertop in Victoria. It is glorious and it is dry.

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of feet that kept you alert and vibrant, it was regularly breathing

clean air deep into your gasping lungs.

There is no doubt that building fitness does allow you to

enjoy the walk. It’s difficult to gasp at break-taking scenery when

your breath has already been taken and your legs are jelly.

The Milford Track is 53.5 kilometres long. It is carefully

regulated and your three nights on the track are monitored and

inevitable. You may not camp there. Over fourteen thousand

people march over those paths and rocks every year so if you

decide to stop you could well cause a nasty human traffic jam.

Because it is one way, however, most of your time on the track

is with company of your own choosing. That could be a beloved

person, a new-found friend who does not speak English or you

could find yourself communing with dazzling flora and fauna.

These wilderness experiences are spell binding and if you

let yourself relax and breathe and stop taking photos every now

and then to listen and wonder, you will be stilled with incredulity.

You may as well take your time to experience this beauty

because what are you going to do when you get to the hut? Eat

and sleep. And wash. In the water. Lots and lots of water. There’s

plenty of water on the track, beside the track and there are

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Incontrast

the

MilfordTrack...

is full of

water!

MacKay Falls

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swimming holes at every hut – though personally – it’s getting a

bit cold in April.

My husband thinks there should be more words for the

descriptions of water. We heard water plinking, splooshing,

whooshing, dripping, showering, flushing, hosing, kerplunking,

fissing, cascading, crashing and thundering. Coming from

Melbourne the amount of water is mindboggling.

It will rain during your time in Milford. There is nothing

more certain. We heard anecdotally Milford can have anything up

to �� metres of rainfall annually but 9 metres is entirely normal.

Melbourne, of course, enjoys about 9 millimetres per annum.

On the track, water clings in tiny droplets to mosses

hanging from verdant trees. Water curls in tendrils around

gentle quiet rocks. Water silently glides in wide river stealth and

The Clinton River

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waterfalls fountain, gush and pour into pounding rock canyons

and giant teeth fissures.

From the moment you embark on your bus trip from DOC

beside mystical (and hydro powering) Lake Te Anau to Te Anau

Downs to catch the ferry to the beginning of the track, water flows

everywhere, guiding you into some kind of aquabliss.

One should note, however, that where there is running

water, there is also a flight of anti-concord. It is of course, namu

(sandflies). This tiny cloud of stinging menace is trouble. One

must prepare. If you know you are a tender flower, easily irritated

by insect sting, it is worth stocking up on a course of vitamin B

at least a month before travel. It is controversial, but I found it

worked for me. I am a sensitive creature and I definitely avoided

Lake Te Anau

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being bitten too severely this time. We also carried three different

types of insect repellent because, as you may know, everyone is

different. This is no more in evidence than in the effect sandflies

have on different individuals.

One of the great pleasures of embarking upon a Great

Walk (and there is no doubt that the Milford Track is indeed a

Great Walk of the World) is the fact you will not be alone. You

will be joined by human representatives of many of the worlds’

nations; each of whom will have different reactions to the

sandflies. Marvellous. Namu. The great leveller.

Namu were admired by our Maori forebears who used the

track to seek out and trade pounamou (greenstone). The sandfly

was described as a creature who would not allow anyone to

sit down and relax when they should be getting on and moving

some more pounamou. Another driving force behind the need to

keep moving on the Track.

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So, you’ve caught the bus and you’ve embarked on a

gorgeous cruise across a lake surrounded by many hills and

been surrounded by breathtaking scenery even before you step

out on to the path. It’s already gorgeous. You’re glad you came.

Absolutely. And now the Milford Track lies before you.

We step out onto Glade Wharf to wash our boots in

detergent to prevent the spread of didymo – a foul soggy toilet

paper looking algae (nicknamed rock snot) that wraps itself

around rocks and propellers and is spreading through the New

Zealand waterways. So far, the rivers and valleys of the track are

clean.

We’re already used to washing our boots, of course. Our

membership in the VNPA had introduced us to the frightening

Phytophthora cinnamomi, or root rot fungus that is devastating

some Australian native plants. In Victoria, we are encouraged to

wash our boots with a simple mixture of metho and water to kill

any spores after walking in affected areas. (Plus the energetic

customs officers in Christchurch carefully steam cleaned our

boots, a semi religious experience we didn’t care to repeat on

our return to Australia so we scrubbed them thoroughly in our

Christchurch cousins’ laundry before heading out on the return

trip to the airport!)

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Act OneHere we are at the beginning of the track. A wide soft peaty

path, lined by Arthur Rackham fairy-story trees, meanders

enticingly into the distance. The beech trees drip with moss and

greenness and endless possibilities. The very sensible DOC sign

announcing the start of Milford Track seems to glisten with hope

and shiny wonder. We set out with rising joy in our hearts.

Felix, our fourteen-year old son, already out in front, has

befriended some backpackers and quickly establishes himself as

an independent person.

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My husband, Philip, and I are celebrating our

seventeenth wedding anniversary and settle down for a

romantic stroll into magic land as a couple once more.

The other passengers from our boat disappear from view

and the track opens out in front of us. Cheeky grey and

white miro miro (or strictly, ngirungiru in the South Island)

(tomtits) with sparkly black eyes flitter down from the beech

forest to greet us. ‘Follow me,’ they each twitter. ‘This way,

this is your path, this is the way of wonder…’

And you, fascinated, follow their curious flirtatious

tiny glances and fanciful patters and twirls of feathers. You

seem to float down the curving gentle path. Suddenly the

way opens out into a mellow green meadow beside the

river and The Way of Showers and Chardonnay is revealed

with a blare of generator.

There are two ways to do the Milford Track. One

is the independent way we have chosen. This is what the

ngirungiru would call Freedom Walking. The other way

is The Way of Showers and Chardonnay. Here you pay

staff to look after you, thereby opening the track to rich

people who like to walk lightly, smell nice and eat well. Fair

enough. The sandflies will soon sort them out.

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Felix on the first swing bridge over the Clinton River. (Bring polarising sunglasses to see many trout.)

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In fact, we never had much to do with the Shower and

Chardonnays, the huts are positioned far enough away from

each other that only the most slow or the very fast could meet.

The first day walk of wonder is only short (ridiculously

if you’re paying for it but there you go.) It’s a little prelude; a

magical introduction.

The Freedom walkers carry on the enchanted journey

for a little while longer – enjoying our first swing-bridge over

the swirling waters of the Clinton River. Here’s where a pair of

polarising sunglasses would have come in handy. The waters

teem with trout and eel. Some of our fellow Freedom Walkers

had brought a licence and a rod each and ate fresh fish with

lemon and dill for the first two nights.

The Clinton Hut is basic but lovely all the same; home

for a night. We selected bunks and before we knew it, needed

torches to find our way to the bathrooms. There’s running water

in the sinks and flushing toilets. This Freedom Walking business

is not entirely deprived!

From Clinton Hut there’s a little side trip over a boardwalk

that takes you into another fairy grotto called the Wetland

Walkway. Our ranger had posted a sign inviting us to join him on

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a guided tour at 5pm that evening.

Delightful mosses and tiny orchids are nestled in amongst

orange and white flowers and oddly strange shapes of bog type

plants. Jim Henson’s creatures could be peering at you but it’s

the toutoumai (robins) who come to chat. They peck your boots

and stare into you to see if they recognise you. Then they test

your boots for insects. If you act like a tree a bird could nest in

you. You hold your breath. It could happen. Honestly.

DOC provides cooking facilities in the peak season so you

don’t have to carry stove or fuel. You do have to carry pots and

all your food and you do have to carry out all your rubbish. Mind

you, if you’re cooking a nice big trout then the bones and guts get

spilled right back into the river. What comes from the track stays

on the track.

The only time we were fully conscious we were sharing

our facilities with a large group of strangers was on that first night

as we waited for the ranger’s talk.

Each hut used to be minded by a warden in peak season.

Now, due to the nature of the word ‘warden’, DOC has decided

to rename them ‘rangers’. ‘Warden’ had a kind of prison tarnish

that doesn’t really fit with Freedom Walking, does it, whereas the

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word ‘ranger’ is filled with wild adventure and Lord of the Rings

ambience and gusto and gung ho guts. Like us. Really.

These ranger people wear green and brown and have the

appearance of trees. They are rare weather beaten folk (can you

get beaten by rain?) who speak the language of trees and birds

(except kea – more later) and maintain track and tourist senses

of humour with their New Zealand dry wit. You can almost miss

some of the more subtle comments as they evaporate like spit on

a hot iron amidst the bare facts.

Rain did grace us with an increasingly heavy presence

that evening so Philip and I walked the Wetland Walkway without

the benefit of the ranger’s commentary. Once we’d got dry, we

thought we’d rather stay dry, suspecting more walking in the rain

further down the track.

We were very interested in meeting the ranger and

catching up with the weather forecast for the next day as were

the bulk of the forty odd people in the hut. The timed solar

powered lighting had flickered on and most had finished their

dinners and were chatting or enjoying a game of Euchre or Pass

the Pigs when a large family group of British and Dutch extraction

began to cook steak for dinner.

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Now, imagine a relatively large crowded room with closed

windows. It’s raining heavily outside and it’s dark. Damp and dim

and close. These Europeans liked their steak really, really, really

well done. Okay. Burnt. And we all, slightly disbelieving, sat in a

sauna of meat smoke. Windows were flung open. More clothes

went on. And the large group of smokers of meat didn’t ever say

a word about their abysmal cooking. And no one said much about

the smoke really, except thank goodness we weren’t vegetarian.

It did add a kind of nightclub effect to the ranger’s talk that night

but that group had to work hard to make friends for the rest of the

walk.

The rangers are ready for anything. They have to look

after the weather, medical evacuations, floods, avalanches,

snow, trapping stoats and rats, cleaning the stoves, fixing the

toilets, finding lost people, finding lost things, knowing all the

rocks, plants and animals and warning the people about keas.

Keas are a New Zealand parrot. Saying the kea is a

parrot is like saying a Lamborgini is a car. Apparently keas like to

eat and they are gourmets; meaning they like to try new foods.

These foods may not be recognised by us as food. Keas also

like to annoy people. Maybe they’re trying to tell us something?

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Anyway, one of their favourite things is to eat people’s boots. It’s

difficult to finish the Milford Track with only one boot, as one of

the Australians will attest (not that she can blame a kea – more

later). We heard a lot about keas before we actually met one.

Luckily the sleeping quarters are away from the cooking

part of the hut and people crept away from the stench to clean

teeth and snuggle into bags and snore. Earplugs are good.

Kea at Mintaro Hutphoto by Felix Millar

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Act TwoAfter our peaceful introduction from the day before, the second

act begins in earnest. Repacking takes ages. We feel late and

grumpy. The Swedish long distance runners left hours ago.

Heavy rain is predicted. Will we get washed away? The ranger

thought it would be safe for river crossings. We knew from our

DOC pamphlet that once we get to the Bus Stop the threat of

flooding is over for the day. Bus Stop? On the Milford Track?

Who knows why some names stick?

Just moments away from Clinton Hut there has been a

tree fall. Ancient trees lie across the path. There was no particular

wind or reason for the fall. The ranger is fairly certain there

wasn’t anyone underneath it. We check for boots – no Wicked

Witch of the West Coast. We clamber across the fallen trunk and

expect adventure.

We find some fantails, skittering and flittering by the

track, dancing through the air. It’s their turn on duty. You have

to think the birds must know where the track is – it’s been there

– peopled every day - for hundreds of years. Perhaps there’s an

agreement amongst the flock as to who should be on camera

duty that day. These fantails flirted with us until chased away by

an affronted weka.

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Wekas are like a very serious slim chicken. They have a

stern brow line extending down into their beak that gives them

a kind of school librarian outlook. They have a stylish brown-

feathered cover with a kind of flouncy bustle. Our first weka had

a sort of Mistress Housekeeper figure, flipping up the back of her

skirts and rushing down the channels beside the track, flapping

her wings and darting to and fro over the pathway as though her

life depended on clearing the place of those irrepressible fantails.

Clearly it was not their turn to shine. It was hers and she made

the best of drawing attention to herself.

The path, although still relatively flat, becomes thinner

and perhaps a little rockier. The hills on either side of the valley

grow strong and surround us with impossible photography. It’s

hard to get the grandeur into your head, much less the camera.

The river still runs beside us though its nature seems even more

changeable. There are more twists and turns and more crossings

of rivers. We found some ‘Australian’ (dry) rivers that showed

evidence of recent flooding.

There was a sense of impending danger; things became

just a bit more dramatic and tensions built as they should in all

great stories - will it rain? Will it flood? Will we fall over?

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A sign tells you where to look for the Hidden Lake.

Dead give away really but a great spot for lunch. Was that a

rare endangered duck, whio, swimming out there by the cliff?

Something made me pick up a stick at Hidden Lake. I’d like to

thank the walker who left it for me. It was perfect. Elbow height,

strong with a slight kink creating a kind of handle; a glowing

patina of sweat and sandfly repellent built up over the wood as we

journeyed back to the main track.

The sign for Hidden Lake is not hidden.

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Now, gradually, the pathway starts to ascend. We are

climbing to around 500 metres above sea level this day and the

ground seems to bubble with rocks of increasing size. It’s not as

easy. We’re turning serious. It’s work climbing these mountain

steps. We’re glad we’ve been training. Still in fairy-land, the

Brian Froud trees are with us, and the views ahead tempt us with

dramatic glimpses of rocky snow and ice above.

After what seems an inordinate time of effort we land

at Mintaro Hut and the air is stung with the shouts of freezing

swimmers enjoying the swimming hole. Thank goodness there’s

a washroom for those of us too scared of the cold. Mintaro is all

one building so everyone is thrilled no-one burns their dinner.

There’s the smallest helipad in the world there and that’s where

we meet our first keas in the morning.

More water in the Clinton

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Act ThreeIf Alfred Hitchcock had known about keas he could really have

made something of that old bird flick. The sound of approaching

keas is something I’m sure Peter Jackson’s sound crew have

built into the scary bits of Lord of the Rings. It’s a crescendo of

squeaking door doom, a car alarm arrival of vampire fang, a

bleating of wild claw; it is some wake up call, that’s for sure. But

underneath the grim vibe, those keas are hilariously funny. The

parrot themselves are olive green and hooked of beak. Some of

the walkers are out to protect belongings left out during the night.

The humans kick the birds away. Unperturbed, the birds perform

for us on the tiny helipad, picking at each other with ruffled

feather, monstrous beak and scaly foot.

After fueling up with porridge, we proceed in our protected

boots, our friends from two nights of card games and chats

absorb our son and we enter the rising panic of day three. This

is the big day, leading to the climax of our story. This is the day

we go over the top; McKinnon Pass. Will we get a view? Will we

freeze? Will we make it all the way up to 1069 metres? Will our

knees and ankles cope? Will we see an avalanche (preferably

from far away?)

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It is fantastic. The climb takes us above the tree line and

into alpine vegetation. It is indeed another world. It is misty and

wonderfully mysterious. An impatience to get to the top grows in

direct relationship to the pain in our lungs and legs. Of course

we do make it safely and our thrill of achievement is almost

blown away by the sharp Antartic wind. Quickly our hand-made

knitware from our Australian friend Sally is pulled from raincoat

pocket and immediately we’re warm again. We prance around

the memorial. ‘This isn’t cold,’ said the professional guide who

guards thermoses for the Shower and Chardonnay team, ‘Last

week there was a foot of snow, 5 degrees below with hundred

kilometre winds.’ (A friend of ours managed to beg a little bit

of hot chocolate.) A couple of weeks before that people had to

be airlifted off the track for safety reasons. If you can’t proceed

through the weather, your journey is finished. Though if you pay,

you can get put on past the danger.

Glacial snow caps veiled n mist

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Luck has a great deal to do with your Milford experience.

I can imagine it could be very cold and very wet for your entire

time. You would have to know that you’ve got dry warm things to

get into at the end of the day.

However, we are fine, and after trying to squish more

scenery into our tiny digital cameras we march up to the Day

Shelter for a cup of ginger chai. There we all use the toilet with

the best view in Fiordland and it is.

Our day on the top, which after careful planning just

so happened to be my fiftieth birthday, is veiled in mist. The

The Clinton Valley from the Day Shelter

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clouds shift dreamily to show us where we’ve been, a curved

glacial valley deep in the distance. Then the curtain is drawn

closed again. We face another direction to guess what could be

hidden under the cushiony cover and suddenly a blooming great

mountain stands before us.

When we’ve drunk in view and chai and bracing air we

commence the downward journey. Here are thrills and sore

ankles aplenty. Once a loud cracking noise made us look up. We

could see glacial packed snow had slipped from the top of one of

the mountains. Would be terrifying in bad weather.

Step by rocky step I’m so glad I’ve found my craggy

stick. It saves me from falling more than many times. The way is

slippery, steep and winds down from the alpine land into a more

open forest – yet another land. The pihipihi (wax-eyes) chirrup

and fly in formation to greet us, a cluster of cheerful flickering

through the herbiage. The views can no more fit in to the camera

than can the sky. Luckily there is need to stop and admire often

for our legs begin to grind. We drop down a kilometre over the

day.

Once or twice already we’ve found discarded plastic

wrappers of some kind of barley sugar. This starts to build until

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we feel we’re in a new kind of Hansel and Gretel story – sadly,

those who left the wrapper trail will be lost forever or definitely

will be when those other walkers, who also were picking up

their plastic markers, find them. Some of the Freedom Walkers

suggested it might be those from Shower and Chardonnay. No?

Could it be? Why, those lowdown, lazy, rich, litterbugs…

The waterfalls are full and glorious but not threatening to

us except in slipping which some (Shower and Chardonnay) do.

(Karmic pay-off?)

Eating cheese, salami and cucumber biscuits beside a

waterfall is elation. We could have done with more scroggin

Icing waterfallsphoto by Felix Millar

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though our seaweed snacks lasted the distance well.

We older folk decided Sutherland Falls would look very

well enough from a distance and continued on the main track

but my son and his companions marched the extra hour and a

half to see the tons of water torrent down 580 metres from the

lake above. A guide from Shower and Chardonnay generously

showed them the safe way to get behind the wall of water

and get extremely wet. They describe Sutherland Falls as the

highlight of their trip and we older folk hide our mild jealousy well.

Dumpling Hut Swimming hole

��Sutherland Falls from a distance; no, it’s not Bill Bailey.

Sutherland Falls close-up.photo by Felix Millar

Wow. Would you look at that view?

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We parents waited at Dumpling Hut, swilling champagne

from a piccolo bottle because the son carried the cups, and

listening to the strange strangulated cries of swimmers shrieking

with agony from the thrill of a chilly dip in the swimming hole.

Mountains rose around us. Waterfalls glistened like runny

icing rivulets down the side of a cake cliff. People were so tired

it was hilarious. The huts were more separated – and there was

even a small bouquet of forest leaves in the bathroom. Those

rangers think of everything, they really do.

The sky was clear and there were stars. So many, so

bright; and the astrophysicist held court, navigating the Southern

Sky for the northerners.

We had pancakes for dinner. With lemon and sugar and

melted chocolate. What’s hardship about that, then?

The Arthur River

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Act FourThe last act of the Milford Track opens with the realisation that

in order to catch the 2pm boat to Milford Sound we will have to

leave at dawn. Oh, not really dawn, a bit later, but not much. The

days of lingering communing with nature are over. Will we make

it in time?

There is a vague sense of panic as we find we are almost

the last to leave the hut. I am champing at the bit because I’m

a slow walker and need to crack on. I leave hubby finishing his

pack and get on the track eating our son’s dust.

This is the first time I’m by myself in the story. And of

course, I’m not. The birds are dancing through the forest too.

Today, I’m witness to a bellbird singing. I am captivated. It flies

closer through the trees, warbling and, as though digging worms

in my soul, is reaching for passion and dreams and colours and it

has fantastic range of sound through almost screeching and pure

tones of light and a jangle that flits closer until he is right above

me and singing directly to me and that bird knew that I was there

for sure it did and it performed just for me, absolutely God’s own.

I kept moving along the path until I met another weka. This

weka was bold. She took her duty seriously. Entertain the human.

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They like that. She marched up to me, and I was thinking poor

bird, mustn’t startle her, gentle wild creature, this weka, and she

reached out and pecked my boots in that now familiar Milford

Track bird like way, and then, she reached up and grabbed my

trousers in her beak. What’s this stuff then? She pinched it, felt

the quality, tugged, tugged again, went in for a big tug and I was

laughing at her perhaps just slightly worried she might be part

kea and then people turned up and she went and hid behind a

fern.

I thought, well, I’ve had my roving entertainer performance

– I’ll leave her to entertain the next crowd.

Although we had a fairly good idea of what time we

should leave various landmarks, none of our party had thought

to bring a watch. The tensions began to mount. The path is still

fairly rocky and the Shower and Chardonnay crew are walking a

half marathon the last day. We only had to walk 18 km. It’s flat,

mostly, but tricky on the foot placement.

MacKay Falls white thunder down huge rocks and beside

the waterfall is Bell Rock. Someone once saw (who and why?

Did they look under all the rocks?) that you could climb under

the rock and found that it is hollow inside. It must have been

hollowed out in a bowl shape over hundreds of years by the

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Philip in Bell Rock; take a torch.

force of water and then some act of nature tipped it upside

down. Apparently one Shower and Chardonnay guide managed

to squash twenty-two of his smaller visitors into the bell at one

time. I’d watch out for that guide if I was doing the Shower and

Chardonnay way. And avoid him.

Beside walls of rock cuttings that prisoners smashed

through a hundred years ago, Lake Ada is the place to get those

post card opportunities. Really, it’s annoying to have to catch a

boat when you could be dawdling along communing with pictures

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everyone’s seen on the walls of the travel agent for all their lives

but the ranger’s suggested a cruise on the Sound is the correct

way to finish the Track and that’s what we’re aiming for. Even if it

does become a bit of a panic towards the end.

There’s a place to wait for the boat and you think, that’s

it, we’re done. If you’re Shower and Chardonnay there’s tea and

scones. We had arrived in plenty of time – twenty minutes before

the boat leaves. I took my walking stick back along the path

and said goodbye to it. When I put it down I noticed all the other

walking sticks that lay beside the track. Mine was best.

Lake Ada

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We started to walk down to the boat and there was an

unexpected twist in the tale. It wasn’t all over yet. There’s quite

a tricky little twisty path to get on to the boat and on boarding,

my husband knocked his drink bottle out of the side pocket of

his pack and into the Sound. The captain immediately performed

an intricate rescue operation and fished the bottle up on deck

with his trusty boat hook. The tired walkers shared the last of my

son’s snacks. (Pork scratchings. Yuck.) The rattly old boat pulled

away from Sandfly Point and headed up into Piopiotahi (Milford

Sound).

We had done the Milford Track. We had been Freedom

Walkers and we had forgotten all about our previous life. We’d

done breathing and walking and my feet had gone flat.

It was a lovely story. It took a year of planning and it

marked my fiftieth birthday, my son’s

fourteenth birthday and our wedding

anniversary.

I asked fourteen year old Felix

what he’d enjoyed most, the views or

meeting people from all around the

world?

He said, ‘Meeting the people.’

We all lived happily ever after.

photo by Felix Millar

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Victoria, Philip, Felix, Ally, Cedric, Mary, Mike and Inigo fresh off the Milford Track (photo by a passing Swedish long distance running web designer.)

Be careful when cruising Milford Sound, the wind will change.

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Footnote: The story of the boot. Have you ever asked yourself,

is it possible to walk the Milford Track with just one boot?

When we first met Ally and Mike at Te Anau Downs, she

had just realised there was something wrong with her boot. The

heel was loose. Before the walk even started Mike fixed it up with

tape. It was their wedding anniversary. Over the next couple of

nights he fixed it with slightly different strategies and tape. On the

last day, the boot became part of the drama. Would it last until

the end of the track? Would Ally be able to make it to the boat on

time? Would she be able to walk at all? Mike even had to carry

her some of the last few metres but Ally made sure it wasn’t until

they sat down on the boat that the boot gave its last gasp. Mind

you, her toenail went black and fell off after a few days. Exactly

like Cinderella. Told you the Milford Track was a fairy story.

Cinderella’s bootphoto by Felix Millar

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Milford Sound. Do the cruise.

See tourists get wet.

v ickoz84@yahoo.com.au