Milford Sound may be one of the most gorgeous places on the planet. Unfortunately – or more likely quite fortunately for the preservation of this natural wonder – it is a pain to get to. Queenstown – a part of our planned circular route around the South Island – is approximately 45 miles from Milford Sound. (This extremely accurate measurement was obtained by the thoroughly scientific method of drawing lines on my business card to indicate the 10 mile marker shown on my map, then using this highly precise ruler to measure the distance). However, as drawn below, the actual route to get to Milford Sound is slightly longer (aka ~180 miles through steep, twisty, mountain passes, numerous one lane bridges, and a giant tunnel that closes at 6pm).
We were excited to make it to the tunnel in time to not be locked out… not realizing that the more apt description is that we were being locked in. Turns out, this backpacker’s paradise/tourist mecca is a sleepy hollow at night. Where we were expecting a thriving nightlife, we instead found a nearly empty campground, one deserted bar, and a number of completely empty docks. Even the famous Milford Sound trek ended in a place that was only accessible by boat, thus completely unavailable to us during our overnight imprisonment.
After quickly setting up a campsite and spending about 30 minutes roaming the entire area of Milford that was accessible on foot, we decided to spend time meeting our fellow inmates. This is where we met the first American of our trip, who also happened to be a rock climber from Austin. Turns out he had been working at the campground for the last few months, so he had some insider information for us.
Our New Friend: “I wouldn’t recommend this to most people, but since you are climbers, there’s this fun trail that takes you up the side of the cliff to the top of a waterfall…” (At the mention of a climber-friendly trail up a cliff, we got excited and maybe didn’t pay as much attention as we should have) “…just follow the trail next to the pipe.”
We quickly found the pipe and started walking up a path next to it, at a gentle incline. However, the incline quickly became steep, and suddenly we came upon a string of ladders affixed end-to-end on the pipe. I remember thinking “well, I understand why he wouldn’t recommend this to just anyone”, and dreading having to climb down these ladders later. We proceeded to climb the ladders, until they ended about 100 feet up. At this point, the ladders were replaced with old, muddy ropes attached to the pipe joints, which we again proceeded to climb. This is where our common sense should have kicked in and said “whoa… this is a tad bit dangerous”. However, we simply kept plodding ahead.
After a while, the sun was starting to set. With no headlamp, my sense of self-preservation finally kicked in and I started to wonder how we were going to get down. I think I kept hoping the top was near and that there would somehow be an easier way down. After a quick discussion (probably the first time we had dared to stop for long enough to consider the danger), we decided to go back.
By this point, we were approximately 600 feet up a steep, muddy slope, with nothing but some old ropes keeping us in place. If we lost our grip and slipped, I don’t think there would have been any way to survive it. Climbing down, inch by inch, my hands were cramping while I tried not to freak out every time my feet slid out under me. By the time we made it back to the ladders, I was immensely relieved at how sturdy and safe they felt, despite having exactly the opposite opinion of them on the way up. Everything’s relative.
Upon returning to the campsite we confronted our new friend. It went something like this:
Us: “Are you trying to kill us?! Those ladders! And those ropes!”
Him: “Ummm… what?! Did you climb the pipe? The path is like 50 feet to the right of the pipe. OMG, what were you thinking”
Us: “Well, we weren’t. After like 600 feet we realized we were nuts and started down-climbing”
Him: “What?!!! You DOWN-climbed the pipe?!!!”
At this point, I think he was counting his lucky stars that we hadn’t died in a tragic accident and left him to deal with the mess/liability/guilty conscience.
Needless to say, we got a pretty great adventure out of it, as well as a renewed joy at being alive. And the next morning we set out to find the correct path, which was, indeed, about 50 feet to the right of the pipe.
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