The Mountains Are Calling.... So I Answered - Part One

The Minarets near Mammoth Lakes

I recently posted about my love affair with the Sierra to express how this amazing mountain range has come to inhabit my imagination.  Since my introduction to the Range of Light 10 years ago, my fascination with this rugged and remote environment has only grown stronger.

The idea of returning is never far from future plans, and this year was no exception.  In June I started considering options for a late summer trip, and was fortunate in securing a wilderness entry permit for the last week in August.  Upon coming home I decided the experience deserved a fuller narrative.

The Heart of the Matter

I'll begin with saying that the Sierra is more expansive than what I have seen up to this point. There are valleys and basins and peaks that would take years to explore, and so far I have limited myself to the "easiest" and most approachable regions.  Becoming comfortable with the territory is mandatory; like Grand Canyon, the Sierra is a place where the insignificance of a lone hiker is painfully obvious, and learning what sort of challenges you might face is just common sense. 

The path to Muir Pass

In saying I have focused my last several trips on areas where trails and access are less difficult, in no way does it diminish the notion substantial effort is needed to traverse any part of it.

Visiting requires tackling high altitude passes on steep, rocky trails just to enter.  Once in the mountains proper the process repeats on an almost daily basis.  But real rewards often require commitment, and nowhere is that more accurate than the Sierra.

For this visit I chose to hike part of a particularly well known route, covering 130 miles over the course of 13 days.  Because of limitations on how much food I can carry, I exited the trail after the first 6 days for resupply.  This entailed climbing over a pass to reach a nearby town where I could restock.  I then had to return the same way, back over the pass to complete the journey.

The John Muir Trail

One of the most well known and sought after hiking adventures for outdoor enthusiasts is the John Muir Trail (JMT). This 211 mile wilderness trek through the heart of the Sierra is the closest many people will come to completing a long distance through hike. The hike can be done either in a north or southbound direction, which in most cases is determined by the availability of permits.  

For the full experience the terminus on the north end is at Happy Isles in Yosemite National Park, and the southern end is located at Whitney Portal.  One of the chief attractions for those who complete the trail is reaching the summit of Mt. Whitney (14,505 feet), the highest peak in the lower 48.

The popularity of the JMT makes securing a permit quite a challenge - numbers are strictly limited to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem.  Those lucky enough take anywhere from 17 to 21 days to complete the route.  Many excellent guidebooks and online resources abound to assist the JMT hiker in planning and executing a successful journey.

Mt. Whitney 2018

My 2018 PCT attempt allowed me to experience nearly all of the JMT, with the trail diverging in Yosemite before reaching Happy Isles.  I exited instead at Toulumne Meadows before continuing north, and was able to summit Mt. Whitney at the beginning, so I felt no urge to do it again.  More importantly, since I did not have the time or desire to do the entire JMT it was easier to get a wilderness permit for a different entry point along the way.

There are no "bad" or less favorable parts of the JMT, but in my humble opinion the section I chose to travel really is some of the best of what the trail has to offer.

Kearsarge Pass

The journey began at the Onion Valley Trailhead, located at the end of a paved road about 14 miles west of Independence on US Highway 395. The starting elevation here is 9200 feet, so hikers with a full pack not acclimatized to altitude will definitely feel the physical effort of climbing 5 miles and 2500 feet to Kearsarge Pass (11,700 feet).  Thankfully the trail offers plenty of opportunity to stop, catch your breath, and enjoy looking east over the Owens Valley far below you..

Kearsarge Pass 11,700'

Once over the pass you officially enter Kings Canyon National Park, a showcase of some of the best scenery on the planet.  Kings Canyon is administered jointly with Sequoia National Park, another crown jewel of exemplary beauty.  At the apex the view of the basin and mountains seem to stretch into infinity, providing all the reward you could hope for in making the climb.

After the pass the trail descends roughly 2 miles into the valley where it meets up with the JMT/PCT junction.  Here you can turn south towards Mt. Whitney (40 miles) or north in the direction of Yosemite Park boundary (140 miles).  I opt for north then take a short side trail that leads to Charlotte Lake, my destination for the first night.

Charlotte Lake

Nestled at just over 10,300 feet, Charlotte Lake is a convenient waypoint to settle in after the up and over of Kearsarge Pass, and a welcome respite from the strenuous beginning.  I arrived somewhere around 3:30 in the afternoon, and selected a spot to set up my tent. Afterwords there was a much appreciated interlude to just sit and reflect on the majesty of the setting.

My experience with backpacking over the years has taught me that the first day or so of a trip is often a restless one, with the body not yet accustomed to the rigors of the trail. Muscles that typically don't see much use make their presence known, and despite a good quality inflatable sleeping pad it takes a while for hips and shoulders to adjust to the change.  As usual my sleep that first night is shallow and intermittent, and waking multiple times through the night allows me to experience the absolute quiet that envelops the darkness.

Dawn arrives just as I finally manage a few hours of dream laced slumber.  Since I have places to go I'm quickly up and packing my gear, preparing to move on to the next objective.

Passes, Passes 

A primary aspect of hiking the Sierra is the truly up and down nature of the terrain.  Most days the hiker can expect to ascend and descend thousands of vertical feet, first climbing towards a mountain pass that allows for reaching the next valley or basin.  The goal for today is to approach, climb, and drop over Glen Pass (11,957), a relatively modest 1600 feet above the lake.

The approach to Glen Pass

The body is still adjusting, and what I call my "pass legs" have yet to reach the point where going uphill feels comfortable, so I adjust my pace accordingly.  I'm not in a hurry with a general goal of around 10 miles per day, which sounds reasonable except for one small detail: Sierra miles are not comparable to miles hiked in other places (except possibly Grand Canyon).

In general most people walk a consistent pace of around 2 miles per hour on relatively flat terrain without obstacles.  Start walking uphill, add lots of loose rock, high altitude, and a heavy pack, and that average will drop significantly.  Despite a regimen of fairly strenuous physical conditioning and being acclimated to a higher altitude (I live at 7300 feet), I still have to pause frequently for brief moments of rest before continuing on.

Reaching the pass is straightforward enough, but there is another factor at play which I usually grumble about when I come here - what I call the dreaded Sierra Step.  

A typical Sierra Step

When trails were first constructed throughout the range, the primary mode of travel was the use of horses and mules, which obviously have much longer legs than humans.  There are many places where the path goes up or down, and given that rock (granite) is the dominant material the hardy souls building the trails used what was at hand.  The steps exist in great numbers just about everywhere you go, and those of us not blessed with long limbs must grudgingly negotiate the stone risers again and again.

Sometimes there is what I call a cheat, where a rock or ledge on the side offers the opportunity to shorten the distance, which only someone who has been struggling with the effort to repeatedly lift their legs would truly appreciate.  But step or no step moving forward means accepting the trail as it is.

Despite the inherent challenges of traveling this rugged mountain setting, steady effort eventually delivers me to the pass and stunning vistas overlooking the next basin 1400 feet below.  For JMT hikers Rae Lakes is a well known and spectacular chain of alpine lakes set amidst the towering peaks.

Looking over Rae Lakes

Trail switchbacks across the talus

The descent towards the lakes takes nearly as long as the approach to the pass, as loose talus slopes require paying careful attention.  I'm not a fan of trekking poles in general; in sections where rocks are numerous pole tips are likely to get lodged in a crevice, quickly turning into a nuisance.  But if Sierra Steps are present a pole can be a blessing as a knee saver, and I carry a single adjustable pole for that reason.

Trailside along a beautiful blue/green lake 

The trail eventually delivers me to the shores of several lakes in the basin.  On previous visits during warm late summer days I have often pondered how inviting the cool waters appear, but so far I have resisted the effort needed to actually take the plunge.

Lots of great "pack rocks" abound

Taking a meaningful break every couple of hours is my approach to backpacking, and finding plenty of incredibly scenic spots to do so is very easy here.  I like to find a nice flat rock to dismount my pack, remove my shoes so my feet can breathe, and sit for at least 15 minutes while snacking and rehydrating.  Shoulders and feet both appreciate the respite, and when I'm ready to move on I can feel the difference in my energy level.

Moving past Rae Lakes, the trail continues on a steady downward track, following the South Fork of Woods Creek as it heads for the confluence with the mainstem of Woods Creek.  This lake outlet stream drops nearly 2000 feet more while the environment transitions from a subalpine Limber Pine forest to a continuous canopy of Jeffrey and Ponderosa Pine at the lowest point.

Down, down, down into the valley

The junction of South Fork and Woods Creek proper is the stopping point for the night, and once again removing the pack, changing into camp shoes (sandals), and setting up my home away from home offers a welcome change from the hours of steady walking.  The pause also allows me to fully appreciate where I am rather than constantly looking at the the tops of my footware.

Pinchot Pass

As mentioned before, Sierra travel is basically a series of big ups and big downs each day, and today is no exception.  I begin at the lowest point, where Woods Creek and the South Fork converge.  From here it is a steady climb up to Pinchot Pass (12,127 feet) some 7 miles away.  Because the trail gains 3600 feet over this distance, that translates to a slightly steeper grade overall and I mentally remind myself to adopt a slow, measured pace.

Travel in mountainous areas is generally easiest when following the contours of the landscape, which in most cases means a route carved by a stream or river.  Obviously there are exceptions, especially when the river plunges into a cataract filled canyon or if you need to exit the valley.  But early explorers tried to use watercourses wherever they offered the path of least resistance, and most of the well trodden trails in the Sierra use this principle.

Morning sunlight on the peaks

Trails usually follow the water

Cascades over granite

The weather is very cooperative, and sunny skies with moderately warm temperatures favor my passage.  Before leaving home I checked the forecast and there was a hint of precipitation at the end of the 7 day time frame, but I have enough experience to know that one or two days is about as much of a guarantee as you'll get.  Even so I'm not concerned because I know better than to venture into the wild without the right gear.

Getting to the summit of Pinchot Pass takes considerable effort, as muscles are still adjusting to continuous repetitive use.  For me one of the true ironies of extended backpacking trips is that by the time you're finished all systems will finally be functioning at high levels, and you feel as though you could just go on forever.  But the trip is over and all that conditioning is for naught - such is the tragedy of the part-time mountain (or canyon) man.

As the trail continues to climb unmistakable signs of environmental change appear, as altitude and the subsequently harsher climate influence what survives.  Summers are brutally short above 11,000 feet, and strong winds keep most vegetation from growing too tall.  Plants cluster together to retain moisture in the nutrient starved decomposed granite soil, and naked rock becomes the dominant feature.

Rocky tors gradually replace trees

 

Strong winds limit tree height  

 

Subalpine environments require resilience

Near the pass the trail begins a series of long, rocky switchbacks that gradually tackle the remaining elevation.  The last few traverses tease a weary hiker with proximity to the summit, but only determination and persistence will deliver the goal.  For most people, getting there is excuse enough to take a break and survey where you've been and where you're going.

I am grateful to be over - Pinchot Pass has the greatest elevation gain of any pass I complete on this visit, and the long grinding uphill was a physical challenge.  But now it's over and down, and soon I locate a suitable place to pitch my tent.  With clear skies I elect to leave the tent fly off so I can see the stars as I drift off to well deserved rest.  Tomorrow is another day, and another pass.

A room with a view

Mather Pass 

After a decent night's sleep due to my effort of the day before, I wake at 6:00 (as usual) and get packed for another day of up and down.  The next height to conquer is Mather Pass (12,094 feet), and it won't be as much of a challenge as Pinchot since the lowest elevation in this valley is just over 10,000 feet.  Still, climbing 2000 feet at high altitude takes patience and determination, and I hit the trail as early as possible.

I follow the outlet streams of Lake Marjorie and several smaller bodies of water as they make their way into the valley.  After several miles they merge with the South Fork of the Kings River descending from the basin I'm climbing into.

Another beautiful day

Streams originate from alpine lakes

Heading down the change in landscape is the reverse of yesterday.  Stony, nearly barren basins slowly give way to more abundant vegetation.  This valley has a somewhat gentler profile, with a broader, more open feel.  Once I cross the South Fork Kings River the difference becomes more pronounced, with widely distributed forest landscapes and willow thickets crowding adjacent streams.

Seeing wildlife in their natural habitat is always an added bonus to the experience.  I came across three mature whitetail bucks grazing along the trail.  My presence did not seem to disturb them, and I'm guessing it's because they live primarily in the National Park, where they are safe from hunting.  In any event seeing these handsome fellows with antlers still in velvet was quite rewarding.

A relatively easy walk leads to a repeat of the environmental shift that has become a daily routine.  A remarkable man whose life spanned the late 19th and early 20th centuries named C. Hart Merriam was among the first to propose what he called "life zones".  The basic idea identifies similar plant and animal communities that correlate both to change in latitude and change in altitude.

This association is commonly used to explain how living things commonly found in Canada at areas near sea level will also exist much farther south, but at much higher elevations.  In my home state of Arizona 6 of the 7 so called life zones can be found as topography ranges from a low of 72 feet near Yuma (Sonoran life zone), to a high of 12,633 feet (Arctic/alpine life zone) atop Mt. Humphreys north of Flagstaff.

Walking along I notice the subtle transitions and observe how weather has shaped the vegetation.  Stunted Limber Pines display what I call the "flag" effect, where one side of the tree has almost no limbs while the opposite side is full.  In this way it is possible to discern the general bearing of prevailing winds, as constant pressure from one direction dictates how a tree minimizes its profile to create less resistance.

Another change begins as I reach the pass - low grey clouds have begun to stream in over the mountains.  At first it doesn't appear too threatening, but as I descend into the opposite valley a few warning drops of rain fall from the sky.

Blue skies yield to dark clouds

The shift in conditions is somewhat unexpected.  None of the other hikers I've encountered over the last two days have mentioned anything about a storm, other than a very slight chance for a scattered thunderstorm.  But ready or not the occasional raindrop soon becomes a light drizzle, and the pack cover, rain pants, and jacket are deployed.

I've nearly reached Palisades Lake, a high altitude alpine tarn set amidst a stark but beautiful granite bowl.  I've been here before and had hoped to spend part of the afternoon just enjoying the scenery, but Nature has other plans.  Increasingly heavy precipitation forces me to find a camp site as quickly as possible, and trying to set up the tent while keeping my gear dry is only partially successful.  Soon it's raining in earnest, and it is all I can do to get my shelter erected and all of my stuff under cover.

Once the tent is up it's time to address the chaos inside.  After shuffling, reorganizing, and contorting myself into a pretzel in the narrow space I reach a state of equilibrium and settle in.  The rain has not abated; if anything it has slightly increased in intensity, and I give thanks for a dry refuge.  Outside I hear other late arriving hikers scrambling to get under cover, and feel empathy for those who struggle in the downpour.

The ground around me is visible as there is slight gap between the tent body and fly, and as the storm continues I notice the mix of poor soil and pine needles isn't absorbing much.  It soon becomes obvious the drainage around my selected site is not ideal, and become concerned as water gathers all around me. There isn't much I can do and before long my tent is sitting in a shallow pool.

Modern tents have a bottom section referred to as a tub, with a waterproofing agent infused or applied in some fashion.  The most effective barrier is a PVC coating, but attempts to make backpacking gear as light as possible rules that out.  The tradeoff is newer tents offer a high degree of protection from water intrusion, but given enough time and hydrostatic pressure all fabrics eventually "wet out".

The short version of the story is that it rained for 6 hours.  As I lay there listening to the insistent drumming of water on the tent roof, I reconciled myself to the fact that I can't change any of it, so I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.  I'll face whatever comes tomorrow.

Tomorrow (Now Today) 

As light began to illuminate the fabric of the tent, I awaken and hear..... nothing.  No rain.  I unzip the vestibule door and peek out, hoping for a clear blue sky.  It's overcast but dry.  So I get up and start packing gear but now everything is wet and that adds a few complications.

The water that surrounded me is gone but the ground is saturated and shows signs of erosion from runoff.  I had pitched the tent near a small grove of limber pine, and wet needles stick to everything they touch.  All the gear inside my tent is slightly damp, and the fly and groundsheet will definitely need time to dry out.  Wet, damp, or dry I shove it all in the associated bags, and hope at some point today the sun will emerge and help remedy the situation.

The other people who camped nearby fared about as well as I did.  Everyone reported the same - standing pools of water that to some degree or another penetrated tent floors and caused some small discomforts.  But everyone is sanguine about the situation and ready to move on to the next destination.

My effort today will be somewhat easier as I am not climbing a pass.  After Palisades Lake the trail begins a steep drop into the valley below, and eventually reaches a junction with the Bishop Pass Trail.  I'll stay the night there before making an exit up and over the pass to reach the town of Bishop, where I can restock food and fuel before returning to complete the 2nd week.

Palisades Lake

As I get moving the sky remains grey but the clouds are moving fairly quickly to the south. Yesterdays "surprise" storm is no big deal but it's always more enjoyable when the weather is favorable.  The trail contours around the east side of the lake and looking around I recall previous visits under warmer and  sunnier skies.

Once past the north end of the lake the granite walls narrow, and the outlet stream is constricted to a narrow chute which begins a steep drop.  Where the stream is visible multiple waterfalls churn into a white noise symphony that fills the air.

Palisades Creek

The canyon narrows

Today I walk around 12 miles, losing 2100 feet in elevation, all of it while paralleling Palisades Creek.  The loss of altitude is very gradual with the notable exception of one area called the Golden Staircase.  Over the course of just over a mile, a series of rocky switchbacks drops the trail around 1300 feet as Palisades Creek tumbles down a severe granite rockface.

Golden Staircase (from a previous visit)

I have never ascended the Staircase, but as there are many Sierra Steps involved I imagine how difficult it is for travelers headed south.  Even going down requires sustained effort, tackling long strides and rock filled trail tread while fighting the pull of gravity.  It's a relief to finally reach the bottom and a more reasonable grade.

Easier grades at the bottom of the valley

Soon the valley is filled with stands of Lodgepole, Jeffrey, and Ponderosa Pine, with areas of significant deadfall from past winter avalanches.  Looking up at the steep sides surrounding me it's easy to see how slides would be a common occurrence, especially when the Sierra has a big snow year.

After an uneventful day I arrive at the junction that afternoon and locate a suitable site.  The rain has not returned, and although I haven't seen the sun temperatures have been mild.  Letting things air out for a bit at camp helps, and by the time I slip into my sleeping bag the storm of the previous day is a fading memory.  

Tomorrow I will take a necessary detour to the east, climbing up and over Bishop Pass for a gain of 3200 feet, and a total hiking distance over 12 miles.  My reward will be an actual meal (not backpacking food!) and a hot shower - maybe even a visit to the laundromat to wash some pretty funky clothes.  

Next: The Rest of The Story in Part Two.

 

 

 

Gillespie Pass Circuit - Off to Siberia

Mountains!

On My Way

Having successfully weathered the storm and two day delay in Wellington, I arrive as planned in Queenstown.  The flight to South Island kept me glued to the window since I was seeing the so-called "Southern Alps" for the first time.  The seemingly endless mountain ranges were a siren song to me - I was ready to return to the wilderness.

Queenstown is a resort town in the Otago region, widely considered to be a major hub for many recreational activities found in the area.  I would spend one night here before traveling north to Makarora, and would return once my adventure in Mt. Aspiring National Park was completed.

Getting Around

Before I launch into my next backpack, I want elaborate on navigating both North and South Islands without a car.  When planning this month long journey, a key component was getting from Point A to Point B.  Many visitors to New Zealand elect to hire a car, or in some cases a "caravan" (self contained camper).  I considered the option, but several factors dissuaded me from choosing this route.

Going the Wong Way

First and foremost is cost.  I'm not cheap, but I generally travel solo and would bear the expense alone.  The price of fuel is high in New Zealand, and rental fees plus insurance increases the outlay significantly.  Also spending multiple nights in the backcountry meant any vehicle I was renting would sit unused for that time.

Finally there is the fact that roads here are generally narrow and winding, with drivers using the left lane.  I am sure I could have made the adjustment, but being distracted by unfamiliar customs, terrain, and signage were issues I did not want to deal with.

Instead I used a practical and robust intranational transit network called Intercity.  The system has an option called Flexipass, which allows for selecting blocks of time.  Each trip is allotted a specific duration that is deducted from the amount purchased, and time can be added if plans change.  I found the process easy - using the website or mobile app I was able to link all of my destinations together, and modify trips as needed.

Intercity uses large modern coaches which are very comfortable.  Not having to drive or be concerned about how to get where I was going made the experience much more relaxing, and I was able to spend my time enjoying the view from expansive windows, reading, napping, or whatever.  And many of the coach drivers were excellent (and sometimes quite funny) guides, sharing lots of history and other interesting information.

The Next Adventure

South Island is a different place altogether from North Island.  The landscape is significantly more mountainous, with multiple ranges stacked up along the southern and western coasts.  This is because South Island straddles a tectonic boundary between the Pacific and Australian plates.  Called the Alpine Fault, the subduction of the diving Australian plate forces land on the Pacific edge to rise, elevating and crumpling the terrain.

The abundance of peaks and high altitude environments are what led me to choose 3 of the 4 trekking routes on South Island.  I selected Gillespie Pass Circuit as one of the hikes because I could do the entire loop in 4 days, and there was an elective day hike I could attempt along the way.  And it sounded cool because I had to take a jetboat on the Wilkins River to reach the starting point.

Jetboating is a uniquely New Zealand experience - in fact the modern jetboat was invented here.  Many rivers in the lower valleys and plains are shallow, braided affairs, non-conducive to traditional outboard motors.  In 1950 an inventive fellow named Bill Hamilton needed a practical means of navigating rivers on the sheep station he was working on.  He learned of an American made model which he tried, but found still ineffective for his purpose.

Jet boats work by drawing water in and then using a nozzle at the rear of the craft to expel it.  He experimented with different configurations before coming up with the current design.  They have since evolved from an efficient way of travel into a booming tourist business.  Today thousands of visitors take trips up and down waterways at high rates of speed, skimming along in shallow water and executing hairpin turns in tight spaces.

Tuck - Mayor of Makarora

Makarora

After a quick night in Queenstown I boarded a coach for the 3 hour drive to Makarora.  It would be a mischaracterization to refer to Makarora as a town, but it does offer an airstrip, lodging, a couple of restaurants, and a petrol station.

Once I arrived, I checked in to the office of Wilkins River Jets. Other than providing people with exhilarating jetboat rides on the river, they offer scenic plane and helicopter flights over Mt. Aspiring National Park, as well as providing backcountry access to people like me.

I was the only passenger on the afternoon boat, which made sense as most people would have taken the morning ride to get an earlier start.  It really didn't matter since I was only hiking about 8 miles, and as it was summer there was plenty of daylight with enough time to get to the first hut.

Wilkins River

I did not take any pictures on the jetboat ride.  This was because once you get moving the driver of the boat wants* to show you a good time - this basically means slaloming across the river from side to side and taking the most aggressive line possible at a very high rate of speed.  Out of necessity I was holding on to the grab bar and thoroughly enjoying the experience.

*I have to admit - this guy has one of the most fun jobs I could ever imagine

Now We Walk

The jetboat delivered me several miles upstream to the start of the track.  When we arrived there was a sizable group of people waiting on the bank for a ride back to Makarora.  I gathered my things and with a big smile plastered on my face said thanks to the boat driver.  Within a few hundred yards I was alone and immersed in the peacefulness of the valley.

In a matter of minutes the track swung away from the river and onto the forested shoulder of the mountain - I was back in the bush.

Unlike my first hike in Tongariro, this track had me following a river valley for much of the duration,  eventually climbing up and over Gillespie Pass into the next valley over.  But the pass was for another day - today my destination is Siberia Hut.

The path was in reasonably good shape, and more like what I am accustomed to.  There were no boardwalks or staircases, just good old fashioned trail tread, roots, and rocks.  The canopy was dense in places but frequently opened up enough to see peaks rising around me.  As the mountains are geologically young, they rise steeply from the valley floor.

The lower elevations are primarily boreal rainforest, with lots of trees, ferns, and mosses.  The alpine environment is limited to the highest altitudes, which is low relative to where I usually hike.  At home alpine landscapes are typically found above 11,000 feet; here the southerly latitude allows for much lower presentation, around 7000 feet.

Close proximity to Antarctica and the abundance of high summits lead to frequent winter snow storms, providing meltwater in warmer months to numerous creeks and streams.  I could see and hear multiple waterfalls cascading down precipitous slopes before eventually reaching the river.

Copious water

Remnants of last winter's snow

The weather was fine, mostly cloudy but rain free.  The highest mountains played hide and seek with the occasional squall, and I could see snowfields draping the loftier peaks.  I rock hopped across many smaller streams, and my desert sensibilities were reassured to see abundant water should I need to refill my bottle.

I was doing the trek in the opposite direction of what the majority of hikers choose, and it appeared that the only other people out here had been the group on the riverbank where I was dropped off.  There was no one else on the trail.  Although there wasn't significant elevation gain, there was somewhat of an uphill component.  In sections the track became rougher with larger rocks and plenty of tree roots - a harbinger of what was to come.

Gets kind of rocky in spots

Trees grow on boulders here

If you look closely at the picture above, you'll see something on the lower right that I found everywhere I went in New Zealand - a trap.  Placed by the DOC, these snares are one way to address a pervasive problem in the country.

New Zealand is an island, and has been isolated from a continental connection for millions of years. As a result native fauna evolved without natural land predators.  This exemplified itself in a proliferation of avian species, especially flightless birds.  When European settlers arrived, they intentionally and unintentionally introduced a variety of mammals that found the local wildlife easy prey.

Thousands of traps in the backcountry

Rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets, and other carnivorous creatures have decimated the bird population, and large scale efforts have been underway for years to eliminate these invasive animals.  This is a contentious issue in part because DOC also uses poisoned baits, which some people find objectionable.  Personally I think New Zealand is right to protect their biodiversity, and I support the effort to defend native populations.

One of many things I enjoy about being outdoors in summer months is the beauty of wildflowers.  I am familiar with many North American varieties, especially those found in the western part of the country.  But we're not in Kansas anymore, are we?  I found these southern hemisphere beauties along the way.  Despite consulting a reference book listing the most common species in New Zealand I was unable to identify them.

After several hours of enjoyable walking in solitude, I sighted the valley where I would find Siberia Hut.  Local lore has it that the area received the name when an early explorer struggled so much with the terrain they decided it was as unpleasant as Siberia.  I haven't been to Siberia so I can't comment on any similarity.  Didn't seem that bad to me.

Siberia Valley

Siberia Hut at the edge of the valley 

Home Sweet Home.... For a Bit

I reach the end point of the day's hike and the warden greets me from the deck of the hut.  I gladly remove my pack and breath a sigh of relief.  It's tradition for trekkers to leave hiking shoes outside, as trails are often quite muddy.  I'm more than willing to give my hot and tired feet some fresh air, and putting on my sandals is a just reward for the effort to get here.

Another hut custom is signing in and showing the warden (if there is one) your "ticket" proving you have reserved space for the night.  There is a log book for recording your visit and ongoing intentions, which is useful to Search and Rescue if someone goes missing.  Once formalities are observed, you can pick a bunk in the dormitory and make yourself at home.

I'm here for two nights before continuing on.  One of my goals for this trek is to complete a day hike to Crucible Lake.  The warden tells me the weather has been wetter than usual and there are unbridged river crossings that could be impacted if rain is in the forecast.  She'll have an updated weather report early the next morning, and I should know then if it's wise to attempt it.  

I've already had to jump through a few hoops because of Mother Nature, so I figure I'll deal with it as it comes.  Lo que será, será - whatever will be, will be.

 

 

Weather Or Not.... Wellington

The Pacific from the hills above Wellington

A Quick Recap (or How I Got Here)

I planned my trip to New Zealand around 4 iconic hikes, taking place over the course of a month during late summer in the Southern Hemisphere.  The first of the outdoor adventures was a 4 day/3 night backpack in Tongariro National Park, located in the central part of North Island.

The Round the Mountain Track is a circuit of Mt. Ruapehu, traversing the flanks of the mountain through bush and volcanic desert ecosystems.  The terrain proved far more challenging than I anticipated, but the primary factors in my decision to abandon the hike after 3 days was deteriorating weather and the onset of a sinus infection.

After leaving the track I arrived in the town of Okahune, located at the base of the mountain.  Once I had checked into a motel and visited the pharmacy for decongestant relief, it was time to assess the next step in my journey.  The original plan called for me to travel by coach to Wellington on the southern coast, and then cross Cook Strait via interisland ferry to South Island.

Turning Lemons Into, Well You Know....

When making arrangements months in advance, I took it on faith that everything would proceed as anticipated.  But as I sat in an Ohakune hotel room watching local news, the weather forecast upended my carefully crafted plans.  The storm that chased me off the mountain was intensifying, and high winds and significant rain were now anticipated over all of North Island.  Extreme conditions were expected to lead to cancellation of all ferry sailings and domestic flights between the islands.

Having no influence on the weather, I had no choice but to accept what was and change my approach.  Essentially I would be stranded in Wellington for at least two extra days, with no way to make it to my lodging and transportation connections on South Island.

I have since learned that ferry disruptions are a major headache for residents and visitors, and weather is not the only reason ships can't cross.  Mechanical issues and failed safety inspections frequently lead to a ship being stuck in port.  When cancellations occur both cargo and people stack up, leading to further delays in being able to cross the Strait.

In five days my next backpacking outing was supposed to depart from Makarora, a hamlet in the southern region of South Island.  But first I had to get to Queenstown to make the connection.  Being large enough to offer regular air service from Wellington, I elected to schedule a flight in 3 days, hoping conditions would allow resumption of travel.  I cancelled all prior reservations, trusting the new plan would get me where I needed to be on time.

Now the question of what to do in the interim was my next concern.  Fortunately Wellington is a major city, home to a wide variety of diversions and attractions.  This post is about my unexpected time there.

Wellington 

After two rainy but recuperative days in Ohakune, I boarded a coach and traveled south.  Wellington is 1) New Zealand's third largest city, 2) the world's southernmost capital city,  and 3) is ranked as the 4th most livable city (tied with Tokyo).  Two major universities and the seat of government are primary influences on the culture.  Oh, and 4) it is also the world's windiest city, which became obvious to me while the storm was still in play.

Many young people come from around the Indo-Pacific region to study, making the city quite diverse with a youthful and surprisingly creative vibe.  I also couldn't help but notice the wide array of different cuisines, with food from around the region as well as lots of international fare represented.

I had essentially two free days before flying to Queenstown, and I decided to navigate the city on foot and by using the extensive transit system.  I needed to resupply items that were either used up or required replacement (food, rain pants and a pack cover), and that meant visiting different areas to find what I was looking for - a perfect excuse to explore.

Aside from that I had some elective time; and settled on a guided tour of Wētā Workshop, as well as a visit to one of the more impressive institutions in New Zealand - Te Papa, the National Museum.  More about these places later.

Like Auckland, walking around the Central Business District was very interesting.  The city is a primary financial hub in the region, and tall skyscrapers share street space with historic older buildings.  Wellington also serves as a major port, with cargo terminals surrounding the harbor to facilitate the import/export trade.

The city itself is situated on the southwestern coast of North Island amidst rolling but relatively steep hills.  Its location on Cook Strait and direct southern exposure makes Wellington a frequent target of storms that originate in the Roaring Forties, which explains the well deserved "windiest city" designation.  Many parks and preserves are located in and around the metropolitan area, and the maritime climate supports lush greenery.

After completing my necessary errands, I had the opportunity to see two notable attractions that Wellington offers.

Wētā Workshop 

The story of Wētā is fascinating to me.  When NZ native Peter Jackson made the fateful decision to attempt a movie adaptation of the monumental Lord of the Rings trilogy, he had to find a way to bring his vision to life.  Enter Peter's collaborator and fellow Kiwi Richard Taylor, founder of RT Productions, a small creative company that previously worked on creatures, prosthetics, and makeup for television productions.

In 1993 Peter had approached Richard about producing effects for his films Heavenly Creatures and The Frighteners.  This led to Peter joining the company which was renamed Wētā Workshop, along with the creation of a CGI effects department called Wētā Digital (Wētā is a Maori word describing a group of large arthropod insect species native to New Zealand).  These modest entities would form the homegrown backbone of one of the most ambitious film projects in history.

With a relatively limited budget, the producers of the Lord of the Rings (LOTR) movies were faced with the daunting task to design and manufacture every prop, costume (including weapons and armor), and structure for the sweeping tapestry created by author J.R.R. Tolkien.  This included all CGI special effects and miniatures to augment physical sets and landscapes.  

In a somewhat unorthodox but brilliant decision, principal filming of all three movies was completed simultaneously over the course of a year.  Every shot was made on location in New Zealand, which given the geographic diversity of the country is understandable.  Post-production would take another several years, with emphasis on large scale special effects, many of which Wētā Digital invented for the films.

Artwork commemorating Wētā in Wellington

In spite of the challenges this superlatively creative group managed something like a miracle, and the trilogy went on to become a tremendous critical and financial success. Their triumph established the divisions of Wētā as heavy hitters in the film industry.  

In the years since the release of the LOTR films, Wētā has become one of the most prominent production companies in the world.  With many Academy Awards and other cinematic prizes attesting to the quality of the work, Wētā has become a significant contributor to the Wellington economic picture.

At present most of what Wētā does takes place in far flung locations across New Zealand and other countries.  Accordingly the Workshop is a showcase, a snapshot in time displaying props, miniatures, and costumes from previous productions.  There is also an in-house armory for the production of weapons ranging from medieval to alien death rays.

The tour takes place over a few hours, with a guide sharing all kinds of insider knowledge including how certain effects are achieved, and anecdotes about behind the scenes incidents.  Overall it was interesting and certainly worthwhile.  Incidentally, the price of the tour included pickup and dropoff from the city center - this was a plus as the shuttle driver for my group was quite entertaining, providing lots of supplemental information about the city enroute to the Workshop.

I won't spoil the experience by divulging too much - I'll just share pictures of what I was allowed to photograph (unfortunately most stuff is off limits due to licensing agreements).

A Troll from The Hobbit

"I'm going to squash you into jelly..."

Turned to stone by the rising sun

One of many miniatures

A prosthetic mask of some really ugly dude

"My precioussssssss....."

Te Papa

Te Papa

When used in the context of the National Museum, the Maori words Te Papa translate to "the Treasure Box" or "Container of Treasures".  It's a very apt description of one of the most comprehensive collections of art, artifacts, specimens, and exhibits regarding Aotearoa (New Zealand).

With an emphasis on biculturalism, the Museum aims to provide a space to tell the story of Maori and European settlers whose shared home includes immense geographical and biological diversity.

Housed in a modern multistory structure in central Wellington, Te Papa is the crown jewel of New Zealand's artistic, cultural, and natural history.  With over 2 million objects in the collection, there is something for everyone here.  Free for New Zealand residents, international visitors pay a modest 35.00 (NZD) for a full day pass.

Gallipolli Exhibit

I only had part of the day to visit, and I am truly sorry I did not get to see more of what is available, but I have to admit I gave most of my attention to a truly jaw-dropping exhibit focused on New Zealand's role in the invasion of Gallipolli.  

Covering the disastrous early World War I campaign, there is substantial space devoted to the experience of Australian and New Zealand soldiers who participated in the long, grueling, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to open another front in the war.

Part of what makes visiting an institution like Te Papa worthwhile is that something new can be presented in a way that makes you want to learn more, and that is exactly what happened to me.  The exhibit is designed to be immersive, and I found myself seeking to explore the details of what happened and why.  When I returned home I spent time on a deeper dive into the history of the invasion, and I discovered things that were previously unknown to me.

For me the most impressive part of the presentation is the inclusion of 8 large figures sculpted at 2.4 times their original size.  These portray the stories of New Zealanders and their personal experience during the brutal months long conflict.  Coincidentally, these enormous depictions were created by Wētā, taking over 24,000 hours to produce.  I attempted to capture some of the amazing detail with these photos, but like many things they are poor representations of the actual objects.

What we call PTSD was referred to then as "shell shock"

Rations were less than appetizing

On the left - see the tiny human?

The doctor's face says it all

The rage of battle

 

Meticulous detail, down to the fly

Sad news for loved ones from the front

 

The realism that Wētā achieved is astonishing, including details as fine as individual hairs on a soldiers hand.  The facial expressions alone made me believe that the figures would suddenly turn and speak.

One of the important ideas conveyed by the exhibit is the coalescing of a national identity for New Zealanders.  Although they became involved in World War I as a result of their association with the UK Commonwealth, afterwards they began to see themselves a separate and unique people.  And the casualties were not limited to descendants of settlers; Maori people fought and died alongside their countrymen.

When I finally managed to pull myself away from the Gallipolli exhibit I spent my remaining time with the natural history and environmental presentations, but honestly I could go back for at least another day to give the rest of the Museum its full due.  Next time, I promise.

After spending two unanticipated but thoroughly enjoyable days in New Zealand's capital city, the weather cleared as hoped for and I boarded a flight to Queenstown on South Island for my next destination - The Gillespie Track in Mt. Aspiring National Park.