Ages ago, back in October, I booked three Great Walks: Tongariro, Rakiura, and the Routeburn. They fill up quickly so booking early is highly advised. In fact, the Milford Track was already booked for December and January.
While I was at the Aspen Lodge over Christmas, I booked three nights around my Routeburn excursion. It was a great plan for my last hurrah in Queenstown before Straying back to Auckland to fly home: return on the ninth, pack on the tenth, hike the eleventh and twelfth, and I’d be back on the thirteenth to celebrate.
Best laid plans, eh?
On the morning of the tenth I woke up late, took my sweet time getting ready, and eventually waltzed down to the DOC office at around 10:30 to pick up my tickets. The kind DOC lady printed off my tickets and read them aloud to me: “Lake Mackenzie Campsite on the tenth, Routeburn Flats on the eleventh.” My heart instantly dropped. Today was the tenth.
I left the DOC office in a daze. Would I be able to get everything sorted to be able to hike the famous track? or was I screwed? I knew I was longing for adventure or excitement, and I guess the universe delivered.
I rushed back to Aspen and the wonderful ladies who run the place, Mandy and Sally, let me rearrange my nights. I then bought groceries and packed before heading to book my shuttle.
The Routeburn’s amazing vistas come with a price: remoteness. The track starts in Glenorchy and ends at “The Divide”. Both ends are in the middle of nowhere and a shuttle has to be chartered unless you park your car and double back. The shuttle is cheaper to Glenorchy so I planned on doubling back to save some dough. Plus, it’d be easier to hitchhike from the Glenorchy end than The Divide if need be.
I managed to get on the 12:30 bus to Glenorchy which arrived at the start of the track at 2. According to the maps and signs, to get to the Lake Mackenzie campsite, I’d have to hike for seven to ten hours. That would put me into the campsite anywhere between nine and midnight.
Luckily I have well-conditioned legs for nonstop trekking over a mountain. I tightened the waist strap on my pack and headed out.
For the next six hours, I hiked myself into a sweaty, wheezy mess up a constantly uphill track. No joke: 90%+ of the first six hours was an incline, and my pack wasn’t in its lightest form. But I still conquored the mountain and passed through the highest part – the Harris Saddle – in high spirits. I was pumping with endorphins for having salvaged my hike, and the thrill of the sunset deadline fueled me up the mountain. I had completed two normal days of the Routeburn in one turbo half-day.
Walking the Routeburn
At around eight o’clock, after six hours of constant uphill calf torture, I finally started on the final downhill stretch to the campsite. On the way, I ran into a girl from Denmark who had sat atop the mountain meditating and eating dinner until the sun began to set. She was as late as I was to the campsite, so we walked together and talked until we reached the campsite. Because she had a four person tent all to herself, she offered me a place to sleep so I wouldn’t have to use my tiny blue coffin. Of course I accepted. As handy as my coffin is, it sure isn’t the flashiest of accomidation.
I had to make a decision: either wake up early and have another long day of hiking back toward Glenorchy, or continue down toward The Divide for some new scenery. I opted for the physically easier yet more adventurous route: The Divide. Hitchhiking from there was sure to be a nightmare.
Lake MacKenzie
I slept fantastically until eight the next morning. Sometime over the night, word of my presence had spread in the sandfly community and I was greeted by swarms of the devilish pests. I quickly ate and packed. After a foggy walk, I reached The Divide at nine thirty.
I was thrilled at having completed the Routeburn, even if it was a bit hectic. Then I got down to the pressing matter at hand: getting the hell out of this forest and back to Queenstown.
I stood by the road for ninety minutes with my thumb out, and only a handful cars and campervans passed. I wasn’t getting too concerned, it only took one kind soul. However, from past experience I’ve learned that tourists don’t have souls and only Kiwis pick up hitchers. And this highway was only used by tourists.
I noticed two trekkers leaving the park and loading up their car. Time to use the ace-in-the-hole of hitchhiking: approaching someone in a parking lot. They have no choice but to talk to you, and usually guilt will take over and they’ll give you a lift. Works like a charm. Turned out I didn’t need to guilt anyone, as one of the hikers was on my shuttle from Queenstown and knew my predicament. I rode along to Te Anau, where we parted ways.
In Te Anau I found another hitchhiker going to Queenstown. Two are harder to pick up than one (unless one is a girl) so I went up the road to try my luck. He got picked up within ten minutes, but I had to wait nearly two hours for a ride. Also, a Dutch girl came to hitchhike and was picked up before I was. Agrivating, but that’s just the nature of hitchhiking.
I did catch a ride with a Kiwi tour guide heading home to see his mom. He dropped me off in Frankton and after and hour of walking along Lake Wakatipu I was back in Queenstown. Hurray!
Checked back into Aspen, had Fergburger for dinner, and treated myself to a lazy night. The thirteenth was a lazy day and to celebrate my final night in Qtown I went out to the bars with some Aspen friends. I said farewell to everyone and left the next morning with Stray at nine.
I’ll miss Queenstown. It is my favorite city in New Zealand. There are places with better scenery, better activities, and better prices; but I’d be hard-pressed to find a place with a better group of people than the Aspen Lodge. I’ve come close, but I know I’ve left a little bit of my heart in Qtown.
