May 27th and 28th - Milford Sound and Invercargill

Does subjecting one’s body to four straight days of decadence and adrenaline have an adverse effect on any subsequent adventurous experiences? Had I forever desensitized myself from enjoying the exploits of lesser excursions or even simpler pleasures? With no great heights, save for any metaphorical ones, left to hurl myself from, would I embrace the comfort of knowing I was safe on solid ground or curse the ground for that very attribute? Luckily we find ourselves with many more days on the open road with which to discover answers to these questions so I can thankfully put philosophy aside for the time being. Interestingly enough, the next stop on our journey, Milford Sound, was a point I could imagine most non-jumpers claiming as their highlight of New Zealand. One has to marvel at the tenacity of the powers that be in their pursuit to make the area around Milford Sound accessible. In order to reach it you must first find your way through miles and miles of sparsely populated mountainside farmland to the miniscule, lakeside town of Te Anau, which itself is barely a blip on the radar. It is here that you are forced to fill up on ludicrously overpriced petrol if you hope to make it to the Sound and back under your own power for there are no fuel stops from thereon in. The 120km highway from Te Anau takes two hours on a good day as it squeezes up, over, and through some of the most massive rock formations I have ever seen. Of particular note is the Homer Tunnel, a two kilometer stretch blasted through the bowels of a lonely mountain in a deep gully of imposing rock. One must continue to consider that for the entire duration of this highway there are no towns or true settlements, the length of road is there solely to bring those willing to travel it the opportunity to share a glimpse of Milford Sound. A true testament to the commercialization of the world, or of the hospitality of New Zealand, you decide, is that there exists a backpacker’s lodge a few kilometers from the end of the Milford Highway. Even in the farthest reaches of one of the most remote corners of the world we were able to cook dinner on a proper stove, stay warm with room heaters, and read by bed lamps. Appreciated, yes, though once we drove the final minutes to the Sound itself I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow cheating myself by enjoying the relative ease by which we were able to arrive at one of the most spectacular natural sights on the planet. Milford Sound is the kind of place you feel should be found as the reward at the end of some arduous multi-day journey, not at the end of some minor inconvenience like the Milford Highway is. Even on a fog filled afternoon where Mitre peak and the rest of the mountains were obscured, it was hard for us to really comprehend our place in the grand picture before us. All the postcards really didn’t do it justice, I could get all Shakespearean or I could just relate it to you as one of the most spectacular natural settings I’ve ever been in and leave it at that. To answer my preliminary musings, yes, I bet I was a tad desensitized by the previous days adrenaline highs to the point where mere natural surroundings could only affect me to such an extent, however the feeling was powerful enough to excite me at the prospect of returning for the Milford track great walk; a multi-day hike like the aforementioned ideal introduction which would see me finish at the peak of one of the surrounding mountains rather than the designated parking lot. As if to emphasize this idea, the following morning saw a prominent snowfall on the mountain peaks and tree tops which made us double back to catch another glimpse before departing, prompting me to underline my mental reminder to return one day soon. The snowfall also made the return journey more exciting, by making the already questionable roads that much more treacherous, I didn’t feel guilty crawling along and enjoying the view. With nowhere really screaming at us to stop between the West Coast and Dunedin we opted to take the scenic highway south to Invercargill, a proper city of some 60,000 inhabitants on the very southern tip of the country. Had we given more thought to the pit stop, we may have further explored the rugged coastline or taken a trip to the remote Stewart Island. As it stands, however, the only item of note from our layover was that we enjoyed a drink in the world’s southernmost Starbucks. I could dramatize the account of how we tried to go to the only movie theatre in town only to find it sold out, but that would be a precious waste of energy. Sadly, dear readers, my bloggery from now until its inevitable slow down (or, dare I say it, end) upon completion of this six week vacation does not have the luxury of another clear adrenaline activity like bungee jumping that I may describe to you in fine detail. This should not be cause for worry; I hope I have matured enough as a writer such that I may adequately convey how the lesser activities on our trip have amounted to much more than the sum of their parts. I hope I need not risk life and limb to paint an appealing picture of our incredible journey in this amazing country, though should this turn out to be the case I’m open to suggestions for a grand finale (that’s if our final stop of Christchurch doesn’t provide one for us by means of another earthquake). Next stop, Dunedin and the Speight’s Brewery, the Cadbury Factory, and the world’s steepest residential street!