We had been expecting mud, but this was something different. This was mud on steroids, mud with super powers We had been warned. “Don’t worry about mud on the Kepler,” a DOC worker in Te Anau had told us the day before. “It’s part of the charm,” she'd said, with a private smile on her face.
Listening to her, I had decided I would avoid it. No chance. My determination had lasted as long as it had taken for me to sink ankle deep in the murky depths. Now we all trudged mindlessly through the stuff, splattering myself and others with specks of earthy blackness. Remnants of boards that had been laid down as fords over especially thick sections were visible; this uber-mud had easily conquered these would be conquerors.
Mud was indeed a constant on this New Zealand mountain hike, though it was far from the only one. The 60 kilometers of beautiful scenery was amazing, of course, and the wind-swept fjords uniquely stunning. I was hiking with four Australians and it would take us, and most of the other hikers, the better part of 4 days to finish it. All of us were fit, and had done plenty of hiking in the months before hand. We were further reassured by the guidebook in the village—which asserted the hike was simple and suitable for elderly and children. It wasn't a hard hike, but being the enthusiastic bunch we were, we over-packed; each of us was lugging around forty pounds up and down the mountains. We still felt good about our efforts, until we learned of the annual Keplar run. Once a year Kiwi runners race the entire track, and the all-time winner turned in a time of 4/1/2 hours.
The other trampers were friendly. One of the most memorable was a middle-aged Australian hiking the hike in shorts and a t-shirt through freezing winds and snow. He was hiking it backwards as well, the harder way. Later, we would exchange flasks with some Israeli hikers in one windy, forlorn hut. Late in the afternoon, the sun came out for a glorious ten minutes. Combined with some “scroggin” (Kiwi for trail mix), we almost felt human again. We sang some of “Here Comes the Sun” with some German university students.
The next day, the mud was frozen as we traversed over the mountain tops. The wind blew hard and the snow came sideways. After a few hours, we were descending down a series of switchbacks. The trail was covered in snow, and the view, however magnificent it may have otherwise been, was obscured in fog. The fog was magical in its own right, and the snow more than made up for it. My companions were from Brisbane and they hadn't ever seen snow before. A snowball fight ensued, which on narrow mountain passes with heavy packs isn't always the best of ideas. We managed to emerge unscathed and the snow stopped falling as we descended down the mountain.
Sometime later, skipping rocks across a meandering river, we realized how amazing this all was. We had climbed up and down a 1400 meter (4200 feet) mountain and come over 30 kilometers in two days and felt good about our accomplishments. That night, we a German brother and sister who had done in one day what had taken us two. They knew what they were doing; they had light packs and nice weatherproof gear. We were all relieved to have our packs off and to be able to sit on the ground.
We were camped out on a green field surrounded by mountains. High above our heads, a waterfall cascaded down, the raging water falling so far that halfway down it turned to mist. The wind would then catch it, lifting the mist trails in different directions. The river itself looked like it was from Lord of the Rings. (It wasn’t, but it looked far more authentic than the real spot, which we tracked down outside of Queenstown some days later.) That night, we’d hear the elusive kiwi birds for whom the New Zealanders are dubbed.
We awoke the next day somewhat refreshed. We had finished with the alpine area, and now were to trudge through the forests and ferny meadows. The ground cover in Fiordland was so lush and laden with ferns that at times it felt like walking through a primeval jungle. Our old nemesis Super Mud re-emerged, but it never reached the nefarious levels of the first day. We were dirty enough now anyway that the gelatinous, coagulated filth barely bothered us at all. We saw "The Big Slip," when 23 inches of rain fell in a day and caused the side of an entire mountain to fall off in a landslide. We heard a bird that made a sound exactly like a cell phone.
On the last day, there is a long suspension bridge that leads to a bus ride back into Te Anau, thus forgoing the last 4 hours of the hike. They don’t explicitly say, but this method is strictly for cheaters. There is not much point hiking 95 percent of the way and then taking the quick way out. That said, it was with some envy that we watched some of our co-hikers hop into a warm bus and speed away toward town.
We finished the hike some hours later, after a long flat stretch along the river. Though not as popular as nearby alternatives such as the Routeburn or Milford, the Kepler track is amazing. It's the only one in the area that is a loop. It starts and ends in Te Anau, which has every possible convenience and good that a hiker could want. Because it's newer, the Keplar has less hikers on the trails and fewer competing for bunk space at night.
In addition to carrying too heavy a pack, some of the dangers you may face include biting sandflies, a full day above the tree-line where high winds can blow you off, mountain parrots with beaks so sharp they can puncture car tires, and sundews, a small carnivorous plant that eats the unlucky insects that end up on the mountains. None of them matter, though. Those five minutes of sunshine make it all worth it.
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The above guest post was written by Ahimsa Kerp . Check out Ahimsa's website or you can find Ahimsa on Twitter here: @ahikerp
