Another dreary June, another Sir Edmund Hillary Day. We decided to celebrate with a visit to the wild, wet West Coast.

There was bush-bashing

and waterfall watching

beach browsing

and tussock tromping

and eating lots of sometimes foods.

Key lesson learned?

“Wow” cannot be overused.

Fin.

With fall just around the corner, we carpe’d some diem last weekend to take a day hike to the Packhorse hut from the trailhead at Gebbies Pass. This tramp is well-known in the area for being pretty easy (guidebooks note “a gentle introduction to tramping for the very young and the infirm”) and also just about the simplest way to stay overnight on the Banks Peninsula. In fact, the hut is accessible (from a different trailhead) via public transportation. Amazing.

We didn’t exercise the overnight option, as I didn’t think our nighttime routine was particularly hut-friendly, what with the screaming and atonal warbling of lullabies. And reading six or seven books over and over. Perhaps some of the trampers might be interested in Rosie’s Walk once, but after a few readings, it does lose some of its magic.**

In any case, the walking was nice, the gorp was tasty, and all toddler transport was in our fine (and exceedingly heavy) backpack.

Will there be more tramping? I hope so.

** I just noticed that one of the Powell’s entries for Rosie’s Walk is an audiobook. Then again, I’m pretty sure our library has theVery Hungry Caterpillar book on tape. Sigh.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, so last weekend we pulled chocks and took a wee overnight to the local resort town of Hanmer Springs.

A scant hour and a half away, nestled at the base of the mountains, Hanmer is pretty much that mountain town in central Colorado/Washington/California with it’s one natural draw (hot springs), insufficient skiing to be a luxury destination, and a maybe-next-week property boom.

I will say, after a winter of huddling in our living room, desperately wishing the insulation genie would appear, soaking in the sulphurous waters of Hanmer was much appreciated. And we et some good vittles.

Sadly, whatever Hanmer’s restorative powers, it also seems to cause near-complete desertion by ones meager photographic skillz.

Much to my surprise, we’re starting to see holidays for a second time. Hard to believe we’ve been here a full year already.

I connived to take a work trip to the wee burg of Motueka (“Gateway to the Abel-Tasman”) right around the four-day Easter weekend. The perfect setup for a little work-play holiday, with work footing the petrol bill. Of course, I had long since forgotten the key lesson of last year’s Easter holiday. Given a long weekend, everyone goes to Nelson and Motueka. Don’t even think of going up there.

In lieu of the sheer madness of trying to find Easter weekend accommodation in Motueka, I opted for the slightly more unrealistic goal of a weekend in St Arnaud (aka the Nelson Lakes). Staying in Motueka is cake. There must be dozens of motels and holiday parks. Why not set your heart on staying someplace with just two lodges.

Heck, why not?

Much to my surprise, I was able to clinch a last-minute cancellation. Throw off the stress of the city life and take in the mountain airs! Never mind that you’ll be hauling around enough inertial navigation and photography gear to quintuple your car’s value.

St Arnaud is a wee little town, nestled at the foot of Lake Rotoiti. Paired with its partner Lake Rotoroa, you have Nelson Lake National Park. St Arnaud bills itself as “the gateway to Nelson Lakes National Park” though it’s more accurately “the only petrol and fish and chips stop within an hour of the lakes.” Fair enough.

I have to admit, it’s a beautiful place. A pleasant little town, a few hotels and a large campground on the shores of the lake. Lake Rotoiti is the “fun” member of the duo, open to boating water skiing and the like, while Rotoroa is the “natural” site. We spent the entire weekend around Rotoiti and I’d say the boaties and campers did little to disturb the natural beauty of the lake. Maybe on a hot summer weekend, but it sure isn’t Lake Mead.

Our travel plans were a little too impromptu to get up to any serious tramping, but we undertook the two premier walks around the lake. First, the obligatory near-vertical tramp to the ridgeline above the lake.

‘Twas a bit cloudy on the tops, but it cleared measurably as we descended, affording us a view over the lake and the valley below.

Though they’re typically heart-achingly aerobic, we’ve grown fond of these sort of “above-the-bushline” (treeline) hikes. For whatever reason, the trees of eNZed have an (er) unnaturally low ceiling. 3000-4000 ft perhaps, which means many hilltop hikes are in the open, providing even modest hill climbs with a chance to show off a long view or vista..

On the second day, we did the around-the-lake track to recover from the previous day’s exertions. As promised, the track traded slope for length, taking 6-ish hours. I have to admit, it was a bit dull. Trees with glimpses of water or the opposing shore.

At the far end of the lake, however, the incoming river had opened an attractive grassy plain.

A pleasant respite from all them darned trees.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. On Monday we drove into Nelson and I traded Anna for James, my co-worker. Then on to Motueka with work to be done….

As previously hinted, Anna and I recently took our turn at the Milford Track, one of NZed’s Great Walks. Unlike in the States, where the “great walks” tend to be epic in length and preparation (Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail), NZed’s Great Walks are universally short (under a week) and typically more catered than the typical backcountry experience. The Milford is the pinnacle of this accommodation: four days and three nights of easy walking.

Unlike just about everything else in this country, the Milford Track actually fills up. Reservations for the Great Walks open on July 1st and the Milford was largely full by the end of July. The walk itself is 33.5 miles long, and trampers (limited to 40) stay in a pre-ordained sequence of huts. You aren’t allowed to go any slower, nor any faster, nor backwards, nor spend two nights at a hut. It should be mentioned Milford is pretty much the only Great Walk with this many rules.

Four days is actually a long time to think about blog posts (really. what else did you think I’d be doing? enjoying the view?), so I’ve got grand plans for a series of posts. Maybe. If we ever get around to it.

Before things get esoteric, though, we’ll start with a basic travelogue and photo post:

First, here’s the overview topo map (courtesy of DOC):

The walk actually starts with a bus ride from the tourist mecca of Te Anau to Te Anau Downs, then a boat ride to the start of the track on the shores of Lake Te Anau.

And winds its way up the Clinton River valley to the Clinton Hut.

The huts themselves are palatial by kiwi standards (though I will say the hut system makes backcountry travel radically different from tent-camping in the states). The first night is a good time to get to know the 39 other trampers you’ll be sharing the trail with for the next few days. Better hope none of them are snorers….

The second day continues up the Clinton River, passing through forest, clearing, rockfalls and avalanche paths, while the valley walls get closer and closer together.

Finally ending at the Mintaro hut:

The third day is the “challenging” day as you light out early from the hut to ascend McKinnon Pass. The ascent is something like 600 m, followed by a short walk across the saddle, and a 900 m descent down the backside.

(the pass is that notch in the ridgeline to the right)

We had the slight misfortune of heavy fog on the ascent, so we didn’t see much of the Clinton Valley behind us.

But once descending, the sun came out and we were able to enjoy the Arthur River valley before us.

Finally reaching the Dumpling Hut.

The fourth and final day is spend on a rather lengthy tromp down the Arthur river to Sandfly Point. The day’s walk seems specifically designed to enrage the Type-A personalities, as the tramp take about six hours, and each tramper must meet their pre-appointed boat (typically at 2 or 3PM) to get off the track. This leads to perpetual watch-checking and shuffling of feet at the slightest suggestion of rest breaks or flagging of the pace.

Despite that, everyone reaches the end of the trail and meets their boat.

Which takes you across the final bit of wet stuff to the town of Milford.

I’m fresh back from a quick trip to the beautiful burg of Westport, whence I visited Solid Energy, the NZ coal company (side note: “Solid Energy” is perhaps the best … name … ever for a coal company). In the grand old tradition of exhausting natural resources before developing other industries, NZ is still mining coal like it’s going out of style, though I’ve been told it’s largely very pure high-carbon coal which goes over to Asia for steel, rather than power production. Technically speaking, SE is an SOE: a state-owner enterprise. It’s run like a company, but Wellington takes a big chunk of the profits, and the rest are reinvested.

Solid Energy actually has a number of interesting problems which are, er, geospatial-ish.

For example, Solid Energy is busy mining on the ridgeline above Westport. It’s not really “mining” as you imagine it, rather it’s “open cast” mining, aka scraping away the earth and hauling away the bits which happen to be coal. Long before Solid Energy started gnawing away at the earth with their 100-ton excavators, however, the hills above Westport were worked by more traditional miners, who turned the hills to a swiss cheese of poorly-mapped tunnels.

So the problem is simple. When you drive a 100-ton truck over a 100-year-old mine shaft, bad things happen. It’s worth Solid Energy’s time to make a really good map of the old mines. There are some historical maps, but without precision satellite navigation and all that, they’re only so accurate.

There are basically two ways to go at the problem. The traditional method is to drill a bazillion holes and see which ones hit solid rock and which ones go through open space. At $15,000 a hole, it’s also a good way to flush a lot of time and money down the loo.

The alternate proposal is to have teams of surveyors actually explore the old mines with a rather pricey laser scanner and make a map as they go. Of course, it’s not a perfect method. Large portions of the old mines are inaccessible due to cave-ins, raging waters, smoldering fires, foul humours, etc., but the sections which can be reached safely can then be mapped quickly and inexpensively.

One major obstacle to mine exploration is a “stopping,” a cement-block wall built by the olde-timey miners to block off parts of the mine once they were done with them. A stopping could be used to wall off an area which was unsafe, unloved, on fire, full of water (there’s that fire and water theme again). Or they may just stand between one perfectly safe portion of the mine and another.

So the Solid Energy surveyors need a safe way to cut a small hole in a stopping and judge whether it’s safe before they go through the trouble of actually cutting a man-sized hole in it.

Enter the GRC. With our proven hjistory of bodging, hacking-together and camera-misuse. We’ll be working with Solid Energy to make a “camera-on-a-stick” for cheap inspection through stoppings. Should be interesting.

There was also sea kayaking.

So for today, it’ll just be downloading photos, doing wash and catching up in the garden. Apologies for the (ahem) long break in our regular blog publishing schedule.

Unfortunately, on Tuesday, my daily routine was disrupted by an off-site visit.

This is the Rolleston Glacier. Well, technically, Rolleston Glacier is the little bit of white way up at the top of the mountain (Mt. Philistine) (no, I didn’t make that up). I was the guest of the jolly academics from the New Zealand Snow and Ice Research Group (really, I didn’t make that up either).

A few NZSIRG fellows from the University of Canterbury are interested in kicking off long-term study of the Rolleston glacier, looking at seasonal and annual variations in size. In March, they’re going to perform a rather extensive laser scan of the glacier. Simultaneously, they’d like an aerial survey of glacier. In the future they might take multiple aerial surveys of the glacier each year to watch the snowpack grow and recede.

Which is where I come in. One of our ongoing projects over at the GRC has involved strapping cameras onto a variety of light aircraft to make aerial photography faster and cheaper.

Of course, doing an aerial survey requires a little advanced look-about (the New Zildish term being “recce”), so I gladly accepted the NZSIRG’s invitation to take a walk to the glacier.

I hadn’t really counted on the 1000 meter scree slope ascent.

Or the snow.

But, much to my surprise, my lazy non-mountaineering flatlander butt did make it to the glacier.

Once there, we started shoveling snow and, suddenly, my finely honed Wisconsin skills kicked in.

(we’re putting up a temporary weather station in the here)

I have to say, I only had a moderate amount of trouble keeping up on the uphill, but I was destroyed on the downhill. Literally and truly, the rest of the chiseled, hardened glaciology grad students (all of whom moonlight as glacier guides for the tourists) achieved something like terminal velocity descending the mountain. I tiptoed rather gently down the loose rock slopes.

That said, my legs are still completely wrecked two days later.

With the onset of summer, we spend pretty much every daylight hour in the garden, trying to fight back the encroaching forces of the weed army and scrape together a few vege for the dinner table. So far, besides the aforementioned asparagus, we’ve had quite a bit of kale, and we should have a few snap peas in short order. A tomato and potato onslaught is forecast for late summer.

Last Friday was Canterbury day, in honor of, er, the region’s, uh, founding, um, father-type guys. Or something like that. But, woo-hoo, another three day weekend!

As the weather forecast was good, we ventured up to Lewis pass and enjoyed the tramp to the Lake Daniells hut. Rather than any sort of epic back-country heroics, we opted for an easy hike to pretty spot, with the idea of a couple of relaxing days in the woods.

The tramp to Lake Daniels is gentle and short, and ends with a pleasant hut perched on the shore of an even more pleasant lake. The tramp itself is considered “family-friendly” by Kiwi standards, and the hut was swarming with kids most of the weekend, which we didn’t mind. It was also swarming with sand flies most of the weekend, which we minded very much, thank you.

On the drive back out, we stopped at Lewis Pass proper to climb the Lewis Peaks, a forested ascent which continues above the bushline.

I’ll refrain from the step-by-plodding-step recount of the whole weekend. Here are some of the pictures. Click any of them to get to the gallery and see the rest of the pictures, including, back by popular demand, more fuzzy blow-up photos of birds.

Monday was Labo(u)r Day. As we heard from our Kiwi friends, Labour Day is well loved because it breaks the long winter drought of no public holidays from Queen’s Birthday waaay back in June. It’s also the first three-day weekend of spring.

We had made grand plans to do some bike touring, but weather and lack of preparation nipped those ambitions. Instead, destination: Otago!

Otago is the large-size region (political unit? state?) south of Canterbury, and covers basically the lower third of the east coast. Whereas Canterbury is flat and plain-y, Otago is rolling and hill-y.

Besides eating excessively and sightseeing, the primary purpose of our trip was to observe us some endangered animals. Aaron’s sub-goal was to demonstrate the need for an exorbitant telephoto lens for the digital camera. Both goals were achieved marvelously.

We kicked off our trip in Oamaru. We both rather enjoyed Oamaru, a small-ish town slowly becoming a tourist destination. It plays host to colonies of both blue and yellow-eyed penguins. The former, though more common, have been, ahem, commodified out of the reach of your average punter. The latter, we’ll get back to that.

Instead of natural splendor, we took a walk around Oamaru’s old downtown, now just becoming a bit of an arts-business district, featuring great quantities of the local limestone. We toured a cheese factory, and waited for the local whiskey distillery to open. The distillery never opened, so we bought cheese instead. Tasty!

Heading south we pulled off in the village/tourist trap of Moeraki. Moeraki the village is an out-of-the-way fishing harbor.

Moeraki the tourist trap consists of these spherical boulders which have come to rest in the surf:

(yes, yes, I know. exposure madness)

At first the whole thing seems overwhelmingly mundane, but after a bit of time in the sun, with the waves crashing around the boulders it’s easy to imagine them as some sort of immense horseshoe crab or alien spawn, crawling from a watery birth.

The site lacked any scientific explanation, but we gleaned that the boulders are the result of some far away geological event (duh), and they’re embedded in the relatively soft embankment above the beach. As the ocean wears at the cliffs, the boulders emerge

and carried into the surf by rather ugly dwarves.

Sometimes the rocks crack open, exposing their creamy nougat-y centers.

Crazy dwarves. Always loafing on the job.

From Moeraki, our next stop was Dunedin. Founded in 1848 by the Lay Church of Scotland, Dunedin is NZed’s “Scottish” town, it’s also South Island’s second largest city at around 115,000 noses [ed: News flash -- South Island population hits one million!], and site of Otago University, the third major University in the South (the others being Lincoln and Canterbury, both in/around Christchurch).

Like Oamaru, we also got a favorable impression of Dunedin. Whereas Christchurch is oppressively flat, Dunedin sprawls across the hills ringing its harbor (it also hosts the world’s steepest street, Baldwin Street). It has a tidy dowtown and a solid college-town feel — most of the housing stock in the city center looks, ahem, well used. As do most of the cars. But there is a plentiful supply of cafes, bars, restaurants and shops.

Dunedin is also the gateway to the Otago peninsula, a short 20-km spit which shelters the Dunedin harbor. The Otago peninsula plays hosts to another colony of yellow-eyed penguins, as well as a nesting colony of royal albatross. Like the blue penguins, the albatross have been screened from the unwashed public by barbed wire and a conservation society which will gladly give you a peep for for a quarter. Unlike the penguins, the albatross can fly anywhere the please, including over the car park to the albatross attraction.

Best guess is those are non-breeding birds, maybe juveniles, with a mere 2- to 2.5-meter wingspan.

For your eye-straining pleasure, here’s the first, but not last, fuzzy blow-up. Gosh, Anna, think how much easier this would be with a telephoto lens.

To my eye, (royal albratross) is to (gull) as (marathon runner) is to (me), with a kindof normal (though large) gull-like body, but that immense, high aspect ratio wing. Given their epic flightpatterns, that comparison might be pretty close to the truth.

A bit later we took a tootle around the Dunedin botanic garden and came across a fine example of NZ Pigeon.

It’s a beautiful bird, at least 50% larger than the common pigeon. And a horrible flier. It’s not uncommon to locate them in the woods by listening for the crashing noises.

We returned to the Otago peninsula to (finally!) stalk the yellow-eyed penguin. At this rather idyllic beach

the Department of Conservation has set up a hunter’s blind for those on the yellow-eyed penguin stakeout. Besides being quite rare, the yellow-eyed nest well-inshore among the shrubs and foliage, often up to a kilometer from the ocean. They feed during the day and return to their nests in the mid-afternoon. So, if you’re lucky enough to be in the blind at about three in the afternoon, you can hang out for a couple of hours and watch penguins commute home.

Unfortunately, the beach was guarded by quite a few fur seals

which were, er, rather huge. And sort of ill-tempered. And between us and the penguins. Sigh. We did actually see a penguin crossing the beach, about a kilometer away.

So we salved our wounds with a fine snack, and watched three more penguins appear on the beach directly in front of us. While the camera sat in the backpack elsewhere on the beach. Sigh.

Before we left Otago, we also caught this elusive creature on film. Not quite as rare as the others, of course (but quite tasty when medium-rare).

On the way back, we stopped at Oamaru again to take another chance at the yellow-eyed. Much like at Otago, DoC provides a blind overlooking the beach. So we waited.

And our patience was rewarded. What? No, really. There’s a penguin in the picture above.

We saw several penguins

Even saw a group go back out for a little playtime.

After a while we noticed a a few penguins well up on the cliff, apparently waiting for their mates to return.

What’s amazing is that this penguins (who we figure is guarding the nest while their mate feeds) is an easy hundred feet above the beach, up the brushy hillside you see in the picture. It would be a long waddle. I speculated that they could just fly up the hill, but didn’t get many takers for that hypothesis.

Awesome.

(full gallery here)