A rare sunny day in the Fiordlands Photo courtesy of P.Media

Nestled in the bottom corner of New Zealand’s South Island lies the massive wilderness that is Fiordland National Park, a region full of deep, dark, damp valleys that rarely see a human visitor. While Milford Sound may see the full force of mass tourism, our group of four trampers were keen to find some remote yet dramatic spots. George Sound seemed to appeal, but even it had a "marked route," a simple sort of track, so we sought an alternative, more remote way to thread through the U-shaped valleys to the sea. We concluded that the marked route will act only as our means of return.

It all began on the shores of Lake Te Anau at a pessimistic looking information sign. The town of Te Anau is shown to sit in a rain shadow, with an average rainfall exceeding that of the legendary Milford Sound. We then knew the full extent of what to expect, as one trip member, John, put it "This is possibly the wettest trip we could attempt, except maybe a traverse of the lake bed!"

The heavy rain forecast confirmed our nervousness, made even more difficult by having to remove ourselves from the comfort of the warm, dry launch, Waituna. We were already a day late in starting due to the heavy rain. While we had sat in the boat consuming cups of tea and eating ham sandwiches provided by skipper Bill Speight, it was now time to climb overboard in the rain into the tiny dinghy and head to shore. We were heading in the direction of the black clouds nestled in the Doon River. Nine days later we had plans to be picked up by a boat on Lake Hankinson a few kilometres north of here.

"Isn’t it a coincidence that Doon rhymes with Doom and Gloom," Glynne commented, as we stepped into the swamp that is the bank of this deep, dark river. All four ashore, back in the Middle Fiord of Lake Te Anau; Bill Speight sat in his warm, dry launch for another 45 minutes, just in case we had second thoughts. Maybe he thought we were mad. Ahead lay very few certainties, except possibly rain and sandflies.

Picking our way forth up the valley looked initially to be a tall order, but soon the beech forest began to open up and we threaded our way between the trees along the banks of the river. Camping in the rain is never much fun and it was with some relief that at 5pm we stumbled across a spacious rock bivvy to spend the night under. More room than a tent, we could stand about or laze away the evening, well sheltered from the moisture. With all the rain, our attention drifted towards tomorrow’s crossing of the Doon River and then Campbell Creek. The weather forecast received by mountain radio had confirmed that the rain was far from finished.

Our second day just seemed an extension of the first, more rain, more bush, and more slow travel. Crossing the Doon River was surprisingly straightforward but ahead the side stream Campbell Creek thundered down a narrow valley, flanked by a dense rain forest.

We stumbled forward and up. The boulders became bigger, the caverns between them became deeper, but we kept making progress up the valley. I began to wonder whether I would be found if I stumbled and fell into one of the caverns.

Just as the rope was being reached for, an interesting scramble popped us onto a "flat" section of the valley; a spot we hoped would offer us a campsite. Giant boulders create anything but a flat area. Again we faced a puzzle, a puzzle to find a space for two tents, but alas, around the corner was more than we hoped for, a straightforward crossing of the river and a flat campsite. No sitting and waiting for the river to drop, we were now on the side of the river we desired. The mossy, grassy ground ensured a comfortable night’s sleep.

At the head of Campbell Creek lay Lake Wapiti, a place I was looking forward to. Reading the map, it suggested tussock, not bush surrounded this decent sized lake, with mountains hovering above. Though this was mid-summer, we were barely above the bush line when it started to sleet.

Lake Wapiti was, as expected, a dramatic spot. It’s a place where one feels in the real Fiordland, where dramatic vertical scenery lies in peace. No buzzing aircraft, no tourist launches, no hotels, and just an occasional kea. With the vertical landscape, we puzzled how to get around the lake. Fortunately there are a series of ledges hanging above the lake and before long we were descending onto the flat tussock at the head of the lake in search of an apparent rock bivvy. But, the rock bivvy we were told existed, couldn’t be found, so back out came the tents.

Dawn came and the tents sagged from the weight of snow. The mountaintops were hidden behind clouds and we moved slowly about the campsite, uninspired to cross the mountains. Back we went into the sleeping bags. After all, they told us on the mountain radio that the weather would clear the next day.

The following day, snow covered the hillsides as we stepped on top of the pass that brought into view Twin Falls Creek. Clouds still lingered and we began to question the weather forecast. Our puzzle this morning was how to descend to Twin Falls Creek, as it seemed to be well protected by rock walls and we were looking down into a vast amphitheatre that is the head of this creek. We followed amazing rock ledges and after a straightforward scramble we looked up at a gorgeous crescent shaped wall of rock, scratching our heads, wondering, "How the hell did we get down there?"

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