Visited the Department of Conservation Fiordland National Park visitor information centre, where Hillery and Sawyer saw a film about the fiords. Meanwhile, Ivy and I chased ducks lakeside, jumped in puddles, and viewed the bug sculptures made from old car and motorcycle parts.
Fiords, you’ll be happy to know, are steep, glacier-cut gorges. Sounds, on the other hand, are sea-flooded river valleys. The distinction was lost on the European explorers who named Milford Sound, which really isn’t a sound at all. It’s a fiord.
Walked over to the Te Anau Wildlife Centre, where we saw kaka, weka, and one very old pukeko, a bright blue bird with orange beak. The wildlife there was “recovering,” although I’m not so sure about the pukeko, who we found collapsed in a heap. According to the sign on the cage, this posture was quite normal, and expected for a bird her age.
After lunch we filled up the campervan with diesel, slopping a quart or so on the passenger-side of the cab when the automatic shut-off malfunctioned. Diesel stinks! It’s oily, too, and doesn’t evaporate like gasoline. But off we drove to Milford Sound for a close look at the fiords, a trail of diesel fumes killing sand flies in our wake.
“The fiords are no more spectacular than anything else we’ve seen in New Zealand,” I said to Hillery on the road to Milford Sound. I’d grown accustomed to soaring peaks and expansive valleys, crystal blue rivers, and endless skies on our drive through the Southern Alps. Big deal, I thought.
But the fiordland is not “cute little cabin on the mountainside,” it’s the setting of that scene in Lord of the Rings when Gollum pulls a fish out of the river and eats it raw. By the time we reached the Homer Tunnel, the only way to get to Milford by car, I thought the fiords were not only spectacular, they also gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Rain falls 3 of every 4 days in the fiordland and it was raining we arrived. All around us were waterfalls cascading down the steep canyonsides. The sky was gray and wet. Black rocks spread skyward, closing off the horizon.
The Homer Tunnel, built during the great depression, appears to have been dug with shovels and picks. Traffic lights at either end alternate traffic direction, as there is only one lane inside the tunnel. Keas, the world’s only alpine parrot, outside the tunnel entrance, amused tourists waiting for the light to turn. One landed on our campervan and made a lot of racket with his claws.
Took a rainy hike at The Chasm, where the Cleddau River cuts through layers of soft and hard rock creating a web of stone. A cold jungle.
Early evening we pulled into Milford Lodge, Milford’s only accommodations. Milford really isn’t a town as much as bus parking for the scenic cruises that depart from there. Not much to do in Milford but admire the view and swat sand flies. The lodge is a backpacker’s oasis, with hot showers, a swank little café, and a lounge with overstuffed couches. No moose heads or pine log furniture here! When I stepped in out of the rain to check in, twenty-something hipsters were reclined on the couches wearing fashionable fleece, drinking coffee, and reading paperbacks. We were one of only two dozen or so vans plugged in outside. Most guests were staying inside.
The rain continued, so we sat in the back of the campervan and watched Spongebob Squarepants. The clouds broke up, and I BBQ’d some chicken, while pacing and swatting sand flies with the spatula.
Sand flies are a bit clumsy and slow. Keep moving and they won’t bite. Initially, bites aren’t so bad. Itchy, red welts appear the next day, however, and remain for up to several weeks.
The kids fell asleep early. Could have been the fresh air or the diesel fumes. Not sure. But as a result, Hillery and I had a rare opportunity to chat. We drank a bottle of wine, listened to rain rattle on the roof, and through the rear picture windows watched clouds drift through the dark canyons outside.
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