We arrived at Kinloch Lodge (seemingly one of the only two premises in Kinloch) and soon found ourselves in the middle of a wedding celebration. The alarm bells should have started ringing when we found we were the only non wedding guests staying at the lodge. Sirens should have sounded when the groom and his mate wandered into the kitchen area, apparently in charge of the wedding barbie and seemingly more concerned with the beer. But we were soon offered some 'piss' and entertainment by the affable duo.
Apparently the ceremony went well and we know the alfresco disco was a big hit as it took place right outside our room. At intervals, we'd be invited out to join in the party, most times with a knock and a shout of 'get those bloody poms out here for a beer', but the groom didnt think we could hear over the music, or at least that's what we thought as he burst in, beer in hand and swaying slightly. A beer would have been nice, but we knew it wouldnt end there and didnt fancy starting the five day Routeburn and Caples Track hungover so we politely declined!
We woke the next day to a sky heavy with rain and dishwater dull. Not wanting to get all our gear soaked at the outset, we delayed our transfer to the start of the track to the afternoon. A wise decision as it turned out because by lunchtime, the clouds had lifted and the sun was shining.
The lodge owners drove us to the start of the track and we were soon on our way, the by now familiar feeling of a full pack on our backs. The first leg of the hike, up to the Routeburn Falls hut would take us through forest and ferns, across foot bridges, over swirling streams and all was well until we reached a section of wooden walkway hugging the curve of a sheer rockface. Cascading down the face and onto the footbridge was a huge waterfall, no doubt a temporary product of the heavy rain over the previous 24 hours. We backtracked, hoping to find an alternative route and bumped into a kiwi family and two American guys heading toward us.
The fear-nothing Kiwis pressed on towards a certain soaking while we discussed alternatives with Andy and Paul, two guys from Colorado who, reassuringly, seemed as keen as us to avoid the waterfall. One aborted recconaissance mission by Andy later we were resigned to our fate - under the waterfall was the only option. Alex stuffed her pack into a bin liner, put on her waterproofs, took off her boots and went for it, letting out a shriek as she hit the torrent. I followed suit, only my shriek was slightly lower but the end result was the same - good job all our stuff was in plastic bags!
We carried on up the trail, passing Routeburn Flats and on up to the Falls Hut. Amazingly, the hut was even better than the ones on the Kepler Track, mainly because it was fairly new (the old one had been swept away in a flood - gulp!) and this time we felt much more at home. This was due in no small part to the friendship we struck up with Andy and Paul who kept us entertained with their tales and shared their chocolate cookies. Not even the synchronised adolescent antics of a large group of school girl exhibitionists could dampen our spirits.
Next morning after feasting on instant porridge we were on the trail. Up past the Routeburn Falls themselves and gradually climbing towards Conical Hill through increasingly alpine terrain. As access to the hill was forbidden due to snowfall on the summit we traversed the Harris Saddle and followed the high level trail along the course of the Hollyford Valley towards McKenzie Hut, on the shores of, unsurprisingly, Lake McKenzie!
Andy and Paul were there already, and despite the bunkhouse being almost full, they'd bagged a bottom bunk for Alex who they knew was none too keen on a vertigo inducing top berth.
Somehow, the responsibility for lighting the stove fire fell to the four people seemingly least well equipped for the task, namely the four of us! The job wasnt made any easier by the complete lack of suitable firelighting materials. The hut warden didnt seem too interested so we took revenge by using several D.O.C. questionnaires as firelighters and a mere hour later the stove was blazing or we presumed it was as a cloud of sandfly-like hut dwellers swarmed around it, warming themselves.
Once again the whisky had made the trip and we shared some with the guys who reciprocated by having us in stitches with their driving related anecdotes - "A stick-shift? Good God no!"
It seemed strangely quiet next morning, mainly because a number of the trekkers in the hut, including Andy and Paul, were heading for the Divide, the end of the trail. They'd bypass the Howden Hut and carry on up the road either to transfer back to Te Anau or make the trip to Milford.
We continued along the trail, glorious views ever present, and by mid-day we were already at Howden Hut. It was a lot smaller than the other huts, and for once we had our pick of the bunks. We made the side trip to Key Summit, an alpine oasis half way between Howden and the Divide. Feeling fit and adventurous and with time to kill we decided to walk to the Divide, the official start / end of the Routeburn Track which wasnt on our route for the Routeburn / Caples circuit. The return was hot and sweaty but far better than spending the afternoon in the hut which was occupied by the Kiwi version of the Clampets.
We didnt know at the time but when we set off from Howden to begin the Caples track next day, we were embarking on the longest day walk we'd ever done. Soon after leaving the hut we found ourselves scrambling through woodland and up through tree roots, branches and boulders, some stretches nearly vertical. We hauled ourselves through tangles, ever upward until, two hours later, we emerged through wizened trees snagged with sphagnum moss onto a bare rock saddle.
A quick check of the map revealed that Mid Caples Hut was located in a meadow beyond dense woodland a good few hours walk away. Following the tumbling stream which would eventually broaden into the Caples River we picked our way carefully over rocks and gnarled twisted tree roots, quickly dropping down into the forest.
Aside from the occasional bubble of the stream, the forest was cool and quiet, birdsong strangely absent, our pace slowing as the profusion of tree roots increased. We stopped for lunch then resumed the slog aiming for the succession of small, orange triangles nailed to trees to mark the route.
Eventually we came to a large clearing with the Upper Caples Hut at its centre. Although we were headed for Mid Caples, we popped in to make a cup of tea, using our stove equipment for the first time. We were joined by a laconic Cannuck who amazed us with his tale of Kayaking, an epic voyage from Cairns to Papua New Guinea which took two months, and we thought we were adventurous!
After tea we hit the trail again, and after ten and a half hours, perched on a grassy plateau at the far side of the plain was Mid Caples Hut. We were overjoyed at the prospect of ditching the packs and settling down for the night, but we werent there yet. Just like the castle the knight rushes towards in the Monty Python movie, every time we looked up, the hut seemed just as far away. Crossing the plain seemed to take an age but we'd made it!
The 12 bunk hut was cosy, and we shared a convivial evening with the hut warden, the Canadian Kayaking guy, an eccentric British guy and some campers seeking refuge from some particularly persistent sandflies. The only drawback was the toilet facilities - set nearly 100 yards away from the back of the hut in the middle of the bush. It was also of the pit variety, the foul odours emanating from within weren't enough to deter the sandflies and seemed positively seductive to the swirling fly storm which could be heard buzzing contentedly as you approached the door. A powerful combination of bravery and necessity drove Alex to head out into the night armed only with a head-torch. At the last moment discretion became the better part of valour and rather than face the perils of the pit, a lucky square of the New Zealand country side received an impromptu watering while the less intrepid member of the party crossed fingers, legs and everything else while waiting desperately for dawn to break.
Early next morning we rolled up our sleeping bags for the last time, boiled up the last of the porridge and hit the trail. The plan was to trek to the trail end and then walk the 12kms back to Kinloch - arriving just in time to order dinner. Along the track we were accosted by a cheeky robin which got close enough to hop onto our boots and peck at our packs. By now the river had broadened out and so had the Caples Valley, soon we'd find ourselves at the point where the river emptied out into Lake Wakatip, the end of the track and the end of our great adventure.
By now the sun was high overhead and it wasnt too long before we were gently boiling as we we tramped along the dirt road back to Kinloch. After 5 days of constant walking, our hearts werent in it and we resolved to thumb a lift back - the only problem was we were on what Talking Heads must have had in mind when they penned 'The Road to Nowhere'. We'd given up all hope when a car approached. We thrust out our thumbs more in hope than expectation but, thankfully, the car stopped and we piled in. As luck would have it the couple who'd picked us up were staying at the only other house in Kinloch. We were back in plenty of time to order dinner and crash out in our 'heritage room' a luxury we'd planned in advance.
We spent a couple of days at Kinloch Lodge to unwind and relax after our exertions, enjoying the hot tub and crisp, clean sheets of our luxurious room. We even blew the budget and dined in the restaurant. It all seemed like paradise after the Tracks and we wallowed in the comparative luxury, but the New Zealand adventure was far from over...
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