The Greenstone Trek



By my estimation, we hiked over 25 km today; feet might tell you it was over a hundred. In any case, it was too much. Our original plan was loop out following the Caples Trek, A shorter trek but involving a strenuous climb over McKellar saddle. After 39 km on the Routeburn, I took one look at the direct uphill trail and refused. So instead, we are hiking the flatter and longer Greenstone route.

The trail took us through the Greenstone Valley. The Lonely Planet tramping guide says that many people are disappointed with the Greenstone after having treked the Routeburn because you do not get the high views from the mountains. But we found the valley was spectacular. Mountains rose around us as we crossed boggy flat lands and wound in and out of lush beech forests. With the Greenstone River as our constant companion, we hiked through the forests stepping over tree roots, between rocks and across bridges as we passed many of the river's smaller tributaries.

Unlike the Routeburn, this trek isn't heavily trodden. In the first four hours we was perhaps five other hikers. One seemed to appear out of nowhere, a shirtless man with a string of beads hugging his neck who introduced himself to us as the Warden of the Valley. He was keeping track of trail usage, went back and forth between the huts regularly he and wanted to know our names and where we were camping that night.

"Just out of curiosity, how long will it take to hike to the next hut?" I asked him.

"Two and a half hours," he replied. Then he said good-bye and, like lightning, was gone.

John and I began rationalizing our slower pace. We were older. He was obviously only a child and hadn't destroyed his stamina with years of sitting at a desk job. He wasn't burdened with the weight of a full pack. His small knapsack probably carried only his shirt. He hadn't been hiking as we had, for three and a half days. We managed to come up with a thousand excuses why it had taken us four hours to do what he could do in two and a half.

Eventually after another two and a quarter hours on the trail we crossed the Mid Greenstone swing bridge and reached Mid Greenstone Hut. Total time between points, six hours. The Valley Warden could surely have done it in three. The hut is situated 30 minutes beyond an impressive swing bridge. It can only hold the weight of one person at a time and half way across, as the bride, 20 meters above the water swayed and bounced and creaked, I wondered if the estimate included the weight of a backpack.

The doors to the hut were glass sliders which overlooked the Greenstone Valley. As soon as we reached them, we dropped our packs and scrambled inside to escape the torrent of sand flies that always seem to be waiting for us as soon as we stop anywhere. We wonder if they are attracted to bright colors; our packs seem to 'attract them like flies'. As we cooked dinner, we watched the sand flies attack our packs while the rock wrens jumped from strap to strap making a meal of them.

Unfortunately there were no good camping spots around the hut so we decided to hike another hour and a half to the Sly Burn Hut in hopes of a spot there. My feet were killing me but it had been worth the tramp. The hut sits in a elevated valley above the streaming water of the Burn Gorge. A large patch of grassy land surrounds it and from the front door of our tent we had incredible views of the mountains.

The sun made an evening appearance, a glorious end to our day. We had an evening snack while sitting on the grass while the rock wrens had a snack from the flies near my boots. By 8:30 I was sound asleep.

The Final Day

Morning of day five came far too early. "Time to get up," John whispered. I ignored him and rolled over. My muscles needed another solid eight hours to recover from what I'd put them through the day before. "Get up," John whispered again. I rolled the other way. "Come on, rise and shine," he said. Alas in a tent designed for only two people that now held us plus all of our gear, I couldn't find another place to roll. I gave in and opened my eyes. "We have to catch the bus by 2:00 and we have four hours of hiking to do," John said. This was all the incentive I needed. I closed my eyes again.

"Ok, ok, I'm up, I'm up," I said. I didn't understand why we just couldn't spend a few more weeks in the tent sleeping. We could ration out the last of our cabin bread crackers and peanut butter. Bread and water, that was all I needed. While I contemplated how I might carry out my plan, I crawled into my clothes and gobbled the last of the powdered milk and muesli. The rain that had started earlier was pelting the tent fly when I finished. Figures, I thought.

During our five week stay in New Zealand, we have gotten quite good at the mad-dash-pack-her-up-in-the-rain waltz and we followed through each step with precision. Gortex? Check. Rain covers? Check. We were on our way.

Rain muted the views on this part of the trek. I could think of nothing else but reaching the end of the trail. But it was another four hours, as John had predicted, before we emerged at the car park. This was good news, and it was bad news. We were two hours early for the bus and there was no shelter to stay dry under save from the overhang of the outhouse. We pulled a soaked tarp from my pack straps and slung it over a tree for protection. We were cold, wet, dirty and I think I can speak for both of us, fairly miserable.

Two O'clock did come and we were taken by bus and then by boat across Lake Wakatipu to our car at the Holiday Park. I never thought I'd be so happy to see our yellow heap. We didn't even stop to re-fill our water bottles; we just tossed our trash and headed straight for Queenstown.

In Queenstown we pulled into a caravan park, showered, changed and walked downtown. We were dying for something to eat that didn't come in a tear-open pouch. We dined on veggie burgers, sweet potato fries and beer. Just what my sore muscles needed. That and a few years of sleep and I'd be as good as new.