On the Routeburn

The mountains are draped in thick scarves of mist as we begin our hike. Looking up, lush beech forests ascend a mere fifty yards before being swallowed by the gray abyss.

I shoulder my pack reluctantly, grab a few last crackers from the back of the car, and begin walking toward the trailhead. A New Zealand Falcon, perched on a snag above the parking lot, welcomes us into its domain.

At first, we are walking through a dense cloud bank; all that is visible on either side are the dark pillars of trees, their expansive canopies lost in the mist above. We have just entered the Routeburn Track on the west side of the South Island. It is a two day outing, and we plan to cover around 20 miles of steep, rugged terrain.

Fingers of ruddy light wrestle through the foliage, slowly dispelling the obstinate mist. As the trail ascends, we gradually escape the sea of clouds and emerge into glaring sunlight. I shed a layer, then another, as we continue our climb.

Finally, we emerge above the trees onto a ridgeline that overlooks the valley below. A thick cloud bank sits beneath us, snaking like a pearly ribbon through towering monoliths of stone. Occasional pockets in the clouds reveal a river tinted blue from glacial till. We had found New Zealand's wild heart.

For the next hour the trail traverses steep gradients, narrow switchbacks followed by descents through the lush, dark forests draped in moss.

Finally we emerge again, this time at treeline. A fresh breeze kisses the face, a reprieve from the still, damp air of the forest interior. The calls of chaffinches and other non-native species mix with the thin, high notes of Rifleman and the mournful calls of bellbirds. A Long-tailed Koel, the size of a small hawk, darts through the canopy. Its mate is close behind.

In New Zealand, the purported Land of the Birds, much has been lost. Less than a millennium ago, six species of moa roamed across this isolated archipelago. The largest, standing six feet tall, would have occurred in these very forests along the Routeburn Track. And pursuing such mammothian birds was the Haast’s Eagle, the largest eagle to have ever existed.

Since human settlement, a whole host of other bird species - around fifty total - have slipped off the face of the earth. Among them are mergansers, owls, quail, wrens, snipe, and many others. Despite this unsettling history, drastic efforts are being taken to restore and repatriate native avifauna. The South Island Takahe, thought to be extinct until it was rediscovered in the Murchison Mountains in 1948, is making a significant comeback. The population now stands at over 400 individuals. The same is true with the Kakapo, a large, flightless parrot that is slowly recovering on predator-free islands off the coast. One can still find glimpses into the past in remote areas of New Zealand where birds were king, but gradually their domain is succumbing to that of man.

After roughly seven miles of hiking, we arrive at Mackenzie Lake and eagerly slough off our packs. Several other hikers, exhausted from their excursion, relax along the placid waters.

The harsh, grating calls of Kea resound across the basin and spill out into the deep valleys below, mixing with those of the Kaka and the South Island Robin. The lake is a sanctuary for hikers, a perfect stop-over place whether you are on a half-day walk or a forty mile trek. Those who tend toward the latter would stay the night in one of two small wooden cabins by the shore, each one outfitted with several long bunk beds.

After an enjoyable presentation on the use of pest traps in the area to mitigate bird loss, a ragtag group of various nationalities and ages drift through the murky light to their respective bunks. Several hours later I am still awake, listening to three silhouettes rattle the bed posts with their impossibly loud snores.

Next morning we are up before the sun, despite little sleep. I am on the lookout for the South Island Wren as we escape the forests and get up onto the sun-baked alpine. This wren, one of the most endangered bird species in New Zealand, is restricted to a few localized alpine habitats, with the most widely-known being Arthur’s Pass. I had heard that a few remained in the alpine above Mackenzie Lake, but I would later be informed that the species was best seen at an obscure location a few miles off of the trail.

Soon we were well above treeline. Half of the land had awoken to the sun, while the lake and cabin below us remained slumbering in night. As we hiked on, the terrain became increasingly beautiful. On all sides, snow-laced peaks towered around us with glacial rivers winding like cobalt snakes far below. We passed a few other hikers, but humans were generally scarce (at least more so than the Kea); most day-hikers would not reach this point until well into the afternoon.

Two hours passed. We were still on the alpine, trudging up and down steep hillsides under the weight of our packs. It was Lord of the Rings-esque; every valley and bend seemed as though it could have been the filming location of some great battle scene.

By this point, a massive, ping-pong ball-sized blister had mushroomed on my foot, and was causing me walking problems. Fortunately, duct tape came to the rescue. I was back on me feet in minutes, the pain having been temporarily relieved.

Around an hour before noon, we arrive at a low-lying pass which marks the beginning of our gradual descent. Beyond are more rows of mountains, extending like sharks teeth into the hazy horizon. Recent bushfires in Australia had produced tremendous volumes of smoke which were just arriving in New Zealand. The following day, the entire South Island would be smothered in a thick blanket of haze.

The hike down was no less beautiful than the hike up. Every so often, I would pause at a glacial stream and kneel down, allowing the frigid water to kiss my lips. It was a liberty that I had been deprived off as a Coloradan whose waterways’ are contaminated with giardia.

Soon we had descended into a valley floor as flat as a tabletop, its flanks blanketed in beech forests that thrummed with bird song. Upon crossing the pass, the woods had become much drier than what we had seen the previous day - still blanketed with moss and ferns, but not as verdant and saturated with moisture. The people were also changing. As we neared civilization, day-hikers and recreationalists became the predominant trail-users. Lounging on bleached rocks the size of cottages, they dipped their legs idly into the cobalt waters while we labored by with heavy breaths.

Yesterday’s dried bean stew was failing to provide the needed energy, so I resorted to sucking on candies as we descended out of the mountains. Several miles later, the shimmering hoods of cars appeared through a gap in the foliage. The prospect of relief breathed life into my legs, which were now stubborn leaden weights taking each step at a time.

Within minutes, we were back at the car. Packs were thrown down on the gravel as we all reclined, our backs once again free. I looked longingly for one last time at the peaks towering to the west, at the deep forests and steep cliffs, knowing that the glacial lake was still hidden back there like a gem in the cool embrace of the mountains.