Travelling north alongside Lake Te Anau, the sun was rising above a snow capped mountain peak, shimmering light across still blue water. They started to climb steeply as the roadway cut a path through the snow covered mountains of Fiordland National Park.
They were making good time. If they could make it to the Homer Tunnel before nine, they would have a clear run through to the other side. If not, they would have to wait for the traffic lights on the tunnel to change. The lights were set to allow traffic to head in one direction every twenty minutes.
He was grateful for the warnings given by those who preceded him and they made it through in the nick of time.
They took a fish hook turn on a high mountain ridge and looked down to the snow covered gorge below. It was breathtaking and frightening at the same time. LP took several deep breaths and avoided looking over the cliff face. The winding road was just wide enough for two cars to pass each other. He wouldn’t know what to do if a semi-trailer was coming in the other direction.
At Milford Sound's car park and terminal below the rugged snow capped mountains, LP parked the vehicle. Several vessels sat in the distance, waiting motionless for passengers and tourists to board.
LP locked the van and he and Ingrid started walking towards the rainforest track which led to the terminal. The air was damp and cool in the forest. A thousand steps later they emerged at the terminal. He had a habit of calculated distance when walking by counting, and knew it was a one kilometre walk.
Entering through the boat terminal’s automatic doors, they rushed to the front counter. As they were ahead of schedule, LP enquired whether they could board the 10am departure to Milford Sound rather than their booking at 11am.
The receptionist said that they needed two more passengers in order to take a boat out at 10am, and asked them to come back in twenty minutes to check if anyone else had booked. They sat down to enjoy the surreal landscape through the plate glass windows. This was one of the rare places where mere mortals could experience a once in a lifetime magical beauty.
Ingrid couldn't believe that a tourist boat operator would take four passengers out cruising, when the boat could carry one hundred and fifty.
Twenty minutes later, LP approached the counter again to ask if any more passengers had booked. As he waited, the receptionist was trying to help three German tourists, who were struggling to understand the Kiwi accent. "Book now, the captain departs in five minutes."
She was trying to explain to them that this boat would not be crowded with Japanese tourists, whereas bus loads would be arriving soon for the 11am departure.
The captain, who had been leaning on the counter, looked across and said simply, "Private tour. Let’s go." LP backed him up, saying "Private tour, private tour."
It finally clicked and the Germans booked their cruise. On the dot of ten, the captain manoeuvred his vessel from port, headed towards the Tasman Sea through Milford Sound.
From then on, picture postcard scenery absorbed their thoughts. Nothing else mattered as reality was distorted by breathtaking beauty as they motored along beside sheer cliff faces.
“This is your Captain speaking. Please pay attention to my crew members demonstrating safety instructions... No, I'll cut it short. If we run into any trouble, hang onto a crew member. Thank you.”
LP and Ingrid were standing on the top deck, which was big enough for a helicopter to land. They laughed as they listened to the briefest safety instructions they had ever heard.
LP left Ingrid taking photos and climbed down a steep stairwell, to the boat’s bar. A smiling crew member waited to serve LP a cold stubby of beer. "That’ll be four dollars fifty” she said as she placed his liquid amber on the bar.
LP saw that Ingrid had climbed down from the top deck and entered the Captain's bridge, even though it was roped off. He joined them in conversation but hesitated to step into the chained off area.
He suddenly had a flashback to a time when an American aircraft carrier had docked at Fisherman Island in Brisbane. The harrier jump jets were roped off with a sign saying ‘Do Not Enter’, plus a yellow security line. Taking a step across that line would create trouble.
But that's exactly what had happened. Protesters were mingling with sightseers, and from within the crowd, three long haired hippies, two male and one female, had removed their jumpers to reveal T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘Ban Nuclear Power’. They stepped over the yellow line on the aircraft carrier's deck.
Marine MPs arrived within seconds to remove the intruders. To avoid a scuffle and media attention, the security officers carried stretchers for the protestors to be placed on. One of the protesters must have put up a struggle, because another marine arrived soon after with bucket and mop in hand to clean a pool of blood off the deck.
Back in Milford Sound, LP politely asked the Captain if he could have a picture taken sitting in his chair. Waving him though, the Captain said, "Go right ahead, the boat is on autopilot."
He sat smiling, high in the Captain's chair, for Ingrid to take his photo. Without warning, their Captain collapsed, hitting his head hard on the deck floor. Panic set in. Ingrid yelled out to the other crew members to help. The second mate arrived from below deck. He kneeled down, rolled the Captain over and starting to give CPR.
LP asked, "Is there anything I can do? I’ve got a licence for boats like this." The first mate replied "Switch the autopilot off, and turn this boat around." LP was suddenly Captain, preparing to steer back to port.
“Radio ahead. Ask for a helicopter to take the Captain to the nearest hospital.”
Five minutes seemed like an hour as they waited for the sound of chopper blades to mark the helicopter’s arrival on the top stern deck. The crew carried their Captain upstairs to the waiting helicopter for evacuation.
After Milford's flight care helicopter departed with Captain Jensen, the second mate took the helm. As soon as they arrived back in port, Ingrid and LP left the terminal.
Questions would have to be answered if they had stayed any longer. They didn't have time for long winded explanations. Knowing the Captain was in good hands, they headed back through the Homer Tunnel.
At this time of the day, they would have to wait for traffic lights to allow them to enter the dark, two kilometre tunnel that seeped water.
As they waited in the traffic queue on a steep fish hook turn, LP hesitated to look down to the one thousand metre sheer drop to the mountain floor.
Finally, green signalled a long drive ahead to reach Wanaka before nightfall. Factoring in stops for fuel and photo opportunities, as well as changing drivers every couple of hours, they figured they would be there by 7:00pm.
Arriving at Lake Wanaka, overlooking a picture perfect outlook, LP parked their campervan near some picnic tables. The large grassed area which led down to ripples of water washing up gritty sand was reminiscent of an ocean beach, but they were inland, cradled below snow capped mountains.
Ingrid prepared a dinner of hot dogs, using fresh bread rolls smothered with tomato ketchup sauce.
"You know, if we go up that gravel road again to Mt Hutt there's no certainty we'll make it up the mountain. Its nickname is Mount Shut" said Ingrid.
"Well, what else have you got in mind?" LP asked. “Let’s book a helicopter to take us up the mountain."
“OK, but we'd better check how much it'll cost first."
LP used his mobile to phone the Mt Hutt helicopter company and found a friendly and helpful receptionist.
"Mt Hutt is closed” she said. “The season finished last week, so the gates are locked." LP was disappointed, but the receptionist continued "You've phoned the right place to get there though. We're still available for charter to land on the mountain. It would be four hundred and twenty dollars and take about fifteen minutes to get there.”
LP turned to Ingrid saying, "Four twenty." She replied "Just do it."
"OK, book us in for Wednesday" LP said to the receptionist. Once he hung up, he said to Ingrid, "I'm going back to the mountain after thirty-six years. I can't wait"
Ingrid was anxious to book in at Wanaka's van park that overlooked the lake. It was already 8:30pm, and would be dark soon. She commented, "Without twilight being so late we would never have made up as much time." LP nodded his head in agreement as they drove up the steep driveway.
He slammed the door behind him and walked in to the reception office. A tired looking woman booked them in and they found their site, which backed on to a grazing paddock full of sheep. So typically New Zealand, with sheep anywhere you could see green grass.
The next morning, sun warmed their camper as they awoke to a postcard outlook. Sheep meandered by their van, separated by a high fence line. Shade awaited them in the corner paddock.
Ingrid was up first and went over to the communal kitchen to make a cup a tea and some cereal.
LP rose and moved to the driver's seat. He switched channels to find a news bulletin for today's weather. It seemed fine for now, but he wanted to find out how dangerous conditions would be driving across the Haast Pass. Their aim was to reach Fox and Franz Josef glaciers early enough to see both before dark.
The news confirmed his fears, with sunshine throughout the morning, but overcast and raining expected in the afternoon.
LP suddenly wasn't hungry and wanted to get on the move before the bad weather set in. He asked Ingrid, who was finishing her cuppa, if she was up to driving again. He was planning to change drivers once they reached the Haast Pass, so he would be fresh to drive through the Pass in the event of bad weather.
Driving out through town they stopped for diesel then left behind Lake Wanaka and its township. One could understand why blockbuster movies were made there. It was encased by snow capped mountains, crystal clear streams and deep blue lakes.
In contrast, when they cross over to the rugged west coast, they would find it similar in some respects to the Kimberley region on Australia's west coast and the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, with sweeping bends and spectacular scenery.
Looking ahead, a warning sign indicated to slow down to 25km, with a sharp bend ahead. What actually confronted them was Haast Pass; a snow covered mountain range they had to travel over.
“Sit back and take in the views," said LP, taking over the driving.
He had to concentrate now, ignoring sheer cliff faces as the road cut its way through to the other side.
LP was also cautious about the changing weather conditions; sunny one minute and then raining the next. He steered around every bend with apprehension. Only the road signs gave any clue of impending dangers. Finally, they climbed to a point level with and flanked by New Zealand's snow covered Alps.
As they descended the other side, they stopped by a stream that would be changed by Spring’s melting snow into a river, flowing through an unspoiled valley.
LP snapped a couple of pictures, saying, "You can drive; my knee is playing up again."
They swapped seats, clicked on seat belts and continued their journey. After a short distance, LP unlocked his belt, went to his bar fridge and grabbed one of the coldies that he now called painkillers.
Sitting back down, beer in hand, he and Ingrid argued with ‘the other woman’ called Navman, about which turn to take.
He was in the navigator’s seat, remembering the road from travelling across the region years ago. He wasn’t going to let the electronic voice tell him where to go. "In one hundred metres turn." the voice stopped as LP ripped the cord out from the cigarette lighter socket. Ingrid calmed him down before he chucked the Navman out the window.
Although Ingrid had many years of driving experience, she'd found driving such a large campervan more difficult than she had expected. With trying to take in breathtaking scenery while heeding traffic signs signalling danger ahead, she needed a second pair of eyes to warn her of trouble, which could be around any twist and turn. Those eyes were LP’s, her navigator, not the computer. It was up to him to coach her through the unfolding terrain.
Unsafe road conditions were not the only danger they were to face. On the news came a report of police arresting a thirty-two year old driver, who admitted to smoking two bongs to stay awake, while in control of his 40 tonne dangerous goods truck.
The driver had said that one hand was on the driving wheel most of the time. “Bloody hell,” LP said “just as well he's in the North Island. You wouldn't want to have him coming towards you.”
LP had a flashback moment, remembering his close encounter with another truckie on drugs. He and his mates had passed him travelling in the outback, on their road trip to Bells Beach in 1973. He shook his head to get back to reality and concentrate on navigating.
Talk back radio was all about the big race tomorrow. They were expecting capacity crowds to flock through the gates by early morning, even though overcast windy conditions would ruffle a few feathers and hats.
Still, twenty-six thousand race goers were expected to scream the winning trotter across the line. Reputations would be won and lost at Christchurch on Tuesday, and the whole country would come to a standstill as the trotters passed the winning post at Addington Raceway.
LP was keen to place a bet on Graham's tip, Monkey King for a win. He was still cashed up with the casino winnings and figured luck wouldn't desert him now.
Ingrid’s driving skills were improving and she clutched the driving wheel with growing confidence. Gripping bitumen as they accelerating along straight stretches of highway continuing west, the spinning wheels spat out gravel on tight turns overlooking a steep riverbank.
First stop on the West Coast was Haast, a small cluster of houses and one shop. This was the crossroads to the coast, where at last LP could get mobile phone reception.
He stepped out of the van to make a call back to Australia. Using his Queensland TAB betting account, he placed eight hundred dollars on the nose for Monkey King to win.
Ingrid called out, "Hurry up. We need to get to the glaciers before dark." LP climbed back in, buckling up as Ingrid started driving again.
The sun glistened over the expanse of ocean that Kiwis and Aussies call The Ditch, otherwise known as the Tasman Sea.
Stopping occasionally to take photos along the road which hugged the coastline, they kept an eye out for somewhere to stop for a snack break.
LP looked at the map and said, "Lake Paringa is around the next bend. There should be a picnic area overlooking the water."
Leaving the ocean outlook behind and motoring along the lake foreshore, LP pointed out a dirt track. Turning off, they drove through thick bush land. Ingrid parked opposite a picnic table overlooking Lake Paringa.
On a glorious summer day, they sat looking over crystal clear water as they dined on leftover free salad rolls.
Suddenly, a swarm of blood sucking insects with one hell of a bite attacked. Jumping up, they ran to the van, opened the sliding side door and quickly slamming it shut behind them. Not fast enough though; half the critters follow them inside. They were the notorious sand flies of the South Island. They squashed the blood suckers with open palms until they thought there were none left.
In a panic, LP said, "I'll drive before this place devours us." They headed back out onto the west coast's main highway towards their next stop, Fox Glacier.
LP's right knee was giving him trouble again, but the pain was different now. He looked down to see more of the blood suckers leaving red welts on the side of his knee.
He drove with one hand and whacked them with the other as he tried to keep their van heading in the right direction.
LP swerved left, hitting loose gravel and losing traction. He stopped just in time to avoid going over the cliff face to Jacobs River. He finished squashing the last remaining suckers and then battled on, with an aching, itching knee.
Driving north along the west coast road, they came to a small tourist stop. To the right was a boarded up building that had been a pub in another era.
Opposite, they saw a gigantic bug protruding from another dilapidated building. This had to be some sick joke by warped locals. Using the notorious west coast sandfly as a tourist attraction was not in good humour. In Australia, plenty of tourist locations had giant replicas of what their region was proud of. There was the Big Pineapple, the Big Banana and the Big Prawn. Everywhere you went in Australia you'd find a big something the locals were keen on showing off.
The Big Sandfly of the South Island was not something to boast about. Stopping to investigate, they entered a gravel car park in front of a high wire fence corralling five large horned goats. LP thought, “You can't go anywhere without reminders of the past.”
They walked over to an old timber hut, probably built back in the 1800s by trappers or gold miners. Inside, animal skins lined the walls and hung from above.
To the right was an eating area with tables and chairs spread inside as well as on a wide verandah. On the menu were possum and venison pies. LP ordered venison and Ingrid asked for possum.
Next to the warming trays, a sign read;
‘Due to government regulations,
eating possum is illegal’
LP wondered what substitute they would use. He didn't have to think too hard, and didn't say anything to Ingrid as she munched on her pie.
A guy in gumboots, looking like he was straight out the comic series Foot Trot Flats, bounded around acting like he was in command. He grabbed a loudspeaker and started lecturing everyone about the government ruining his business.
He said they had poisoned the surrounding pristine streams and rivers with a chemical called Ten Eighty, by laying baits to kill the possums that were declared feral animals. The government wanted to eradicate ninety million of the buggers, otherwise they'd soon out number sheep.
This policy had created a mad anarchist that placed large anti-government signs out front of his establishment for all the highway traffic to read.
LP and Ingrid didn't stay long after finishing their pies. Walking back to their van, Ingrid pulled out her camera and snapped a couple of photos of the goats standing on a manmade outcrop of rocks. LP didn't want to say that they were destined for the next batch of possum pies.
With less than twenty-five clicks to go, LP was anxious to get to Fox Glacier, which he had not had a chance to climb when he was in New Zealand last. He had climbed Franz Josef Glacier with some experienced mountain climbers who had carried their own picks, while he had to hire his.
He was keen on at least walking to the base of those glaciers this time, no matter how much pain he was in.
LP drove into Fox Glacier's car park. It was five in the arvo', overcast with low cloud and a light drizzle falling.
He unfolded his Dryzabone waterproof riding coat. They were designed for the high country of Australia in winter, but were also ideal in these wet and windy conditions.
An eerie feeling filled the air. Words couldn't explain the sensation. LP was gob smacked at what he was seeing, walking to the base of the Glacier with Ingrid. He looked up in awe at a mixture of white and turquoise colours, and saw climbers descending with picks in hand.
"That could have been me, if only we had more time,” he thought. Walking with a limp, he followed Ingrid back to their van the way they came, along a stony uneven track.
As they walked, they felt the spray coming off an impressively high waterfall. They carefully stepped on the loose stones that had been placed to cross the small stream.
Hundreds of tourists created a continuous line, filing two by two back and forth to the Fox Glacier.
Ingrid volunteered to drive, as LP struggled to lift his leg up into the van.
She accelerated from the Fox Glacier car park, leaving behind majestic beauty.
Next on their itinerary was Franz Joseph Glacier, a twenty-seven kilometre drive through Westland National Park.
On arrival, rainforest blocked the view of the glacier, with only a sign showing a path through the thick vegetation.
It was 6:30pm and still overcast. They walked for fifteen minutes, winding their way up and down through the rainforest canopy, until suddenly the view opened up to the sight of Franz Josef Glacier in the distance.
This was as far as they were going. LP’s leg was giving him too much trouble to attempt the hour’s walk to the glacier and back. And they didn’t want to be too late to book into Franz Josef's van park.
While standing on the observation deck taking pictures, LP struck up a conversation with some young female backpackers. "Where are you from?" he asked.
"US, Minnesota, we've been backpacking for ten days" one answered. Her name was Sarah. She asked "Have you walked down the track to get a good look yet?"
"No, but I climbed it in 74'. It was fantastic, although the glacier has retreated since. It’s further to walk now."
"Us girls will walk it tomorrow" Sarah said.
LP asked out of curiosity where they were staying. He wondered how much a night’s accommodation cost these days.
"We're staying at Glow Worm Backpackers in Cron Street. It’s twenty-three dollars a night, which is about average.” said Sarah.
"You wouldn't believe this. When I was last here, it cost 50 cents a night at all the backpacker places I stayed in back then."
"My dollars could stretch a lot further if I could find places like that” she replied in amazement.
Sarah snapped a couple of photos of Ingrid and LP with Franz Josef Glacier as a backdrop. They headed back to the van and turned right onto the main road towards the township. As they drove, moving clouds gave an occasional glimpse of an ancient glacier.
LP's memory of the place was vague. All he could remember was a road with lots of trees, extreme cold and dampness filling the air.
Entering the township, Ingrid seemed to be driving around in circles looking for the Rain Forest Holiday Park. LP reached up and turned on the Navman, which told them where to turn. In less than a minute, Ingrid drove through the van park entrance, opening up into a rainforest area dotted with campervans.
It was 8:30pm by the time Ingrid booked in, as low clouds pushed across the mountain backdrop. LP waited in the van, contemplating how far they had come.
There were four hundred and fifty kilometres to go before he would stand on the mountain to snap the picture that would connect him to the past.