Day 2: Clinton Hut - Mintaro Hut, 17 km
The loud scream of a kea wakes me up around 7 am. Two alpine parrots are entertaining themselves on the picnic table with a bottle of water someone has carelessly left there. I decide it's time to get up and as it slowly gets light, I pack my backpack. I am one of the first to set out. I try to remember the things the ranger told us about yesterday: the bolted tree that carried a telephone line in the 1970s, the chimney of the maintenance technician’s burned down house. But either I haven’t remembered correctly or the forest has absorbed all those signs of human activity again. The route still follows the course of the Clinton River, although it sometimes seems quite far away due to the few meters of forest between me and the water. Every now and then the path has been diverted where the bank has eroded. A simple plank bridge lies in pieces under a fallen tree. With pink ribbons I am led to the base of the trunk, where a piece has been cut away so I can return to the path. When there’s a side trail to the water, I check if I see a blue duck, but again the animals are just not where I am. I don't have the patience to stand still for long. It's going to be a long day and I want to keep going. At night it hardly cooled down and the morning soon becomes quite warm again. This is a trail where you want it to rain. After four days without it, 90% of the falls dry up. There are numerous bridges across bare streambeds and on the mountain wall you can see where water flows down the rocks after a rain shower. After a few kilometers I reach the north branch of the Clinton River. As I continue along the west branch, the force of the water does not seem to diminish. Every now and then the trail does not follow the main branch of the river, but a quiet stream where clear water flows gently. When I stop at the bank, I see an eel and a trout swimming. Handy for fishermen, such clear water. A little further on a landslide has created a small lake. Dead trees peek out of the water. It is a beautiful, but also spooky sight. I hikebriskly for about an hour and a half until I reach the hut for guided hikers. I take a short break on the covered terrace, with a view of the impressive Hirere falls. A number of hikers join me, although we are not supposed to linger no doubt. After a few pictures I continue. Then route markers appear on both sides of the trail. There seems to be an abundance of them, until I remember the stories about high water. Water that reaches to your knees or even your waist. I imagine you will be happy to see where the trail is then. Not much later the trees recede and I can see the MacKinnon pass for the first time, according to a sign that is. I am not sure where to look and enjoy the mountains which increasingly close in on me. Rugged gray peaks, countless thin streams of water hanging down like a veil, the greenery clinging stubbornly to the rocks up to a great height. Not much later there is a side trail to Hidden Lake. At first I think it’s the little lakes nesting in this moist area between the reeds. Then we arrive at the mountain wall, where a large waterfall feeds a lake, in which the mountains are beautifully reflected. Wow! Back to the main trail then. A little further again a sign with an arrow, this time pointing to Prairie Lake. Hidden Lake was beautiful already, Prairie Lake is the superlative of amazing. The waterfall is smaller and nestles against the rocks for the last few meters, so that the water remains as smooth as a mirror. So awesome. What a privilege to be here.
I pass Bus stop Shelter, where hikers are told to wait at high tide until the trail is passable again. Immediately after, I step into the sunlight and onto the white stones of a landslide. However, earth is not found here. The route is marked with snow poles and you definitely need them to avoid getting lost. Forget high tide, even with the slightest current I would hesitate to face these stones. On the track I puzzeled sometimes, where can I put my foot down straight and level. This is the Rubiks Cube of trails, the next level of difficulty. On a mountain wall, not even that far away, I see no fewer than five waterfalls flowing down. The trail dives into a small patch of forest and then there is another warning, this is the avalanche path along Pompolona creek. The creek is equipped with a sturdy bridge and as I take my first steps onto its wood, I think back to last winter's news report that a Japanese student died at this point. She hiked in winter, when the bridges are removed to avoid being destroyed by raging waters. It had rained heavily and the brook was high. Because it was already getting dark, the student and her boyfriend did not wait, but tried to cross the creek via the stones. The friend made it. When I look at the stones, I don't understand how they even dared to try. There are no nice, flat stepping stones with which you can easily get to the other side. These are rocks jumbled up at every possible angle. Even now, while I can see clearly, I have to think about every step past the bridge. Would I dare to choose to spend the night outside rather than cross that creek?
The vegetation becomes lower again, mere shrubs, while the sun shines down harshly. On the other mountainside, the St. Quintin Falls flows from the forest just like that. I wonder who they are named after, because I don't think MacKinnon has been canonized yet. Slowly I start to look for a lunch spot, but unfortunately nothing shows up for a long time. When I nevertheless lower myself onto a rock along the path, the sand flies find me quickly. Although I sprayed enough poison on it, they keep buzzing around my body so annoying that I cannot rest. Quickly on then, again through the forest. The trail climbs slowly, gravel gives way to stone and rock. See, that's how I like it. No highway for paying tourists. Excitement, adventure! Finally, there is the hut after all. As usual I quickly choose a bed, throw down my large backpack and pack the most necessary things in my daypack. The weather is beautiful and bearing the Kepler Track in mind I quickly continue to the MacKinnon Pass. Rain has been forecast all week and although the predictions rarely come true, I don't want to run the risk of the clouds hanging so low tomorrow that there won’t be a view to enjoy. I pass Lake Mintauro and the helipad which also serves as a viewpoint. I'll have time for that tomorrow. I want to get up high as soon as possible. After about an hour and a half of climbing an increasingly challenging trail, I know it was worth it. What an amazing view! From the top, at the MacKinnon monument, you have a view of two valleys, apart from the Clinton Valley from which you ascended. Beautiful mountains, with a good layer of snow, reflected in the shallow lakes. A large brown bird with red eyes emerges from the grass. The beak is too short for a kiwi, according to hikers who have seen more of New Zealand it is a weka. I can take a few pictures before the flightless bird disappears back into the grass. I linger for an hour or so, while more hikers make the same trek. Then back to the hut to rest, because tomorrow I’ll do this climb again.

Day 3: Mintaro hut- Dumpling hut, 14 km
 A small group of hikers leave as early as 4 am to watch the sunrise from the pass. I wait for dusk to reveal the contours of the mountains before I pack my backpack and hike after them. It seems I made the right choice yesterday. Clouds hang low against the mountain wall and obstruct the view of the blue sky behind it. Again I pass Lake Mintaro and the helipad by. There will be so much to see today and I have given up hope for a blue duck. The trail is still easy, through a forest with strange barkless trees. Then I reach to a suspension bridge across the Clinton River, but where the river still flowed strongly two days ago, it is now a bare riverbed. Shortly afterwards the trail starts to climb and it’s less difficult than I expected yesterday. The heavy backpack doesn't get in the way, but ensures I maintain a careful and steady pace. Soon it gets warm. This time I don't have to take off a sweater or jacket, because I already expected this warmth and hiked in T-shirt from the start. Sweat drips from my forehead and arms and every now and then I blow a droplet from the tip of my nose. Julian, an American from Seattle, follows my up because he likes my slow steps. If I didn't slow him down, he would be up far too quickly and, moreover, exhausted. Slowly we rise above the tree line. I pause for a moment when I discover a parrot. It has a gray head and not the characteristic green feathers of a kea. Could it be a South Island kaka? Before we can get a good look at him, the nervous animal flies deeper into the valley. Once above the tree line, the cloud layer turns out to be a thin one. We rise above it and the mountains surrounding us are bathed in the light of the early morning sun. When we look back to the Clinton Valley, it looks like an elongated lake, whose soft edges nibble on the mountains. We can no longer see the bottom and the hut where we spent the night. We are still climbing, carefully searching our way across the uneven stones. Some glitter silver or gold, but the ranger warned yesterday that it’s lesser substances that are pretending. We overtake two hikers and later a third. A group of kea's fly over, calling, and a swarm of small critters returns to the safety of the lower green. Then the trail flattens and we reach the top, where hikers who have already set out have put their backpacks against the monument and taken pictures of the awe-inspiring mountains. Only moss and grass grow here and we have an unobstructed view in all directions. I walk as close to the edge of the cliff at our feet as I dare. Slightly past the sign that warns us to be careful, but not too close to the grass that hides the exact line between solid ground and a deadly fall. A hiker says a few years ago someone fell down here and I take a step back for safety. We now have the sun behind us, which makes the pictures I take of the Green Valley and Arthur Valley a bit clearer than yesterday. To the left is the Wilmur Peak, with a good layer of snow, which seems to create its own cloud from its sharp point. On the right another peak, also with snow and what could be the remains of a glacier. We enjoy the sun and the small numbers of sand flies. Since we looked around extensively yesterday, I keep my time at the top short today. I climb a little further to the MacKinnon Pas Day Shelter. This is the first shelter I come across that also has gas stoves. The group that left for the sunrise during the night had breakfast here. I stop briefly for a last look at the cloud cover in the Clinton Valley. My stop gets a little longer when I see a weka discovering a puddle of water near the downspout and stops to drink. He doesn't like it if I get too close, but as soon as I squat I'm a lot less scary and can take a picture. Then I go down anyway, which is a lot slower than you’d expect. When climbing, you can easily carry gravity with you, an extra weight on top of your backpack’s. As you descend, you go against gravity, taking the time to place each foot on a rock that appears slightly flat without taking too much of a hit to your knees. Sometimes I stop for a moment, for a bird or a rock. On one stone there’s a strange, rubbery moss or plant that divides the entire surface into squares. I don't know if the fragile red flower is the moss that blooms or a plant that has broken through to the light. The trail turns around mount Balloon until we reach the head of the horseshoe-shaped Arthur valley while descending. About five waterfalls flow across the sharp edges of the mountains. How impressive it must be here after a rain shower! But I count my blessings that it's been dry for three days in a row and we haven't had to wade through the water to our ankles or waist. Every now and then I take a photo, especially after Julian passes me and as a person he is such a tiny point in the surrounding landscape. It's beautiful here. In one place, the danger of avalanches is so evident that there is an alternative path for dangerous times. It is now closed and I am led further down the main trail. Apparently it’s safe and I admire the care and attention with which the DOC protects the hiker’s well-being. Every now and then water drips across the path, but the rocks are jagged enough that my hiking boots easily find a grip on them. A lot lower I end up on a stone avalanche where snow poles indicate the route. You really need it in this lunar landscape to avoid getting lost. I don't want to think about hiking here when the water is higher and you can't even see the stones. At the other end of the stone avalanche I end up between the low trees again. A bridge leads across Roaring Burn and I remember that ‘burn’ is Scottish for brook. A little further on I have my first view of Sutherlands Falls. Despite the lack of rain, a white ribbon enthusiastically plunges many hundreds of meters into the depth. It certainly seems worthwhile to take a detour for an hour. As I descend further I pass Crows Nest, a corrugated iron shed where guided hikers can take a short break. A little further is a shelter for the ‘free’ hikers, but it’s not yet the shelter with the turn to Sutherland Falls. Even though it's almost lunch time, I keep hiking. Shortly after, the trail rejoins the Roaring Burn, which plunges down in a series of spectacular waterfalls. The beauty is not in the height, but in the seclusion of the rocks through which the water squeezes itself. Beautifully polished, veined and shaped. A series of stairs and boardwalks follow the water on its way down and yet I descend only slowly. I can't stop my eyes from drifting to the water. Each waterfall has its own unique beauty. Water quietly flowing across a rock or fizzing in free fall into an ice blue lake. What does Sutherlands Falls have to offer me after this splendor, I wonder. More waterfalls follow, each with a different name, which are still the same river on its way down. In this way I descend further into the Arthur Valley, always enjoying it enormously. Gradually the path also becomes easier, although they have occasionally been a bit too generous with cement. It hikes well, but doesn't look like much and in my opinion doesn't belong in a national park. Eventually I almost reach the floor of the valley and the turnoff to Quintin Hut and Sutherland Falls. The Quintin Hut is for the guided hikers, but in an adjacent shelter I put down my backpack, nibble at my muesli bars and enjoy the few hands of raisins I allow myself before I finish everything tomorrow. It is still early and the hikers in the shelter (of course there are too many sand flies outside) are chatting with each other. I have too little patience to sit still for a long time and grab some water and my jacket in my daypack and wonderfully light with only my trekking poles I set off. The path dives back into the forest, where I encounter tree ferns and again those orange-brown trees without bark. I cross the Arthur River on a suspension bridge. A little further on, I see a gigantic scar on the high rock face on the other side of the river: a deep gray wound in the green forest, where a landslide has wiped out both the fertile soil and the vegetation. The landslide has wreaked havoc, trees lie like untidy piled-up kindling on the river bank. A few trees are still standing, but at an impossible angle that suggests that their roots have been torn apart and they only the surrounding wood keeps them from falling over. It’s impossible to say how many rocks the shift has brought down with it. Which ones were already in the river and which ones have been added? At least a few trees or rocks have made the crossing, because on this side of the river some trees at about three meters height have been carelessly broken. It is an impressive sight and I am happy to be only looking at the consequences and not the event itself. The trail starts to rise, at first gradually, then so steep that a staircase has been constructed. Now I am happy with my poles, because I did not expect this anymore. I am also glad with just a small daypack. The path flattens out a bit and I enter a light forest of barkless trees. A couple in front of me stops on the path and looks into the forest. I slow my pace so as not to disturb the bird they have spotted. It turns out to be a New Zealand wood pigeon. In contrast to the gray feathers of our pigeon, this New Zealand family member is beautiful. The back feathers are fluorescent, beautiful in a very understated way. A few steps further and again I have a good view of the Sutherland Falls. It makes me curious enough to keep hiking. After half a kilometer I am standing on a lawn covered with smooth rocks. I feel small water drops on my face. It’s not one long waterfall, in two places the rock wall protrudes somewhat and the water hits the rocks with such force that the wind carries away the water vapor that is thrown up like a thin veil. This is the largest waterfall in New Zealand, 580 meters high and now that I am standing in front of it I think: yes, this is definitely worth it. The water falls in waves, so that it acquires a fascinating layering on its way down. It comes down to a rock in a small lake and I am amazed that the rock is still there at all, not yet beaten to pieces by the unrelenting force of the water. A man carefully walks behind the waterfall and you immediately see how insignificant a human is compared to this 580-meter tall giant. I keep my eyes peeled and enjoy myself, but in the end I really want to get to the end. Not much later I am back at the shelter. I hesitate for a moment, but in the end decide to eat the delicious chocolate-covered cookies I intended as a snack for this afternoon. I just need some energy. I'm tired. Not physically tired, because when I continue my legs move at the usual pace. I am mentally tired, of constantly thinking about where I put my feet, constantly paying attention, the many impressions I have gained today. It's still an hour to the Dumpling Hut, but I am deep in thought and barely see where I am hiking. When I look up, I notice that I am walking along a stream with strange brown water. What a strange thing, after all that pure spring water from the past few days. I wonder if the water is still safe to drink. I pass some streams, a few landslides and a strange open patch of grass, which later turns out to be a helicopter landing site for hikers stranded by high water. Every now and then the snow poles reappear along the path, from which I deduce that this part of the path results in wet feet at high tide. It's a long hour. And then, finally, a sign appears that refers to a swimming pool. I know at least a few hikers will venture into the icy water. I long for a fresh shower after this stuffy day of hiking, but the river water, straight from the mountains, is a bit too fresh for me. I'll stick to the wet wipes and a clean shirt. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the last day and I can look forward to a real, wonderful shower at the end of it. But first there are more waterfalls, more mountains and above all: the Bell Rock. Today I don't do anything anymore. Tomorrow is one more day of celebration.

Day 4: Dumpling Hut - Sandfly Point, 18 km
 It starts to rain at four in the morning. From soft drops I don't even hear falling on the roof to loud drum rolls that promise large pools on the path. The rain couldn't have come on a better day. This is the last day and the easiest. The path is relatively flat to the end, and what more, it’s simple, wide, gravel. I don't have to worry about slippery rocks and it’s much too soon for floods or high water. In addition, I can now admire the Milford Track in its full glory. The countless waterfalls along the mountainside, the streams and brooks. No, there are no hikers in our group who grumble about the rain that is granted us from above.
It is difficult to estimate how much time we need for the last part to Sandfly Point and that is why I am one of the hikers who leave early in the morning dusk. With my headlamp I illuminate the forest path, where the darkness is just a bit deeper than at the hut. Occasionally there is a gully in the path for water to pass through, or a single rock, but that’s no problem. I am not bothered by the rain. Now I’m glad I have been wearing those rain pants for so long and my backpack is protected by a rain cover. My waterproof jacket even protects my glasses from raindrops, so I can fully enjoy the environment when it slowly gets day. The mountains are shrouded in clouds, patches of dark green are visible behind the veils. It is a beautiful sight and exudes an almost Irish mysterious atmosphere. I hardly encounter any empty stream beds and the sleeping waterfalls have been awakened. I count dozens as I brave the rain and slide my hood back to see more than just my feet. Soon the first shelter appears, much too early. I hike on, brave the suspension bridge across the Arthur River and Mackay Creek and soon arrive at Mackay Falls. It is said to be superior to Sutherland Falls, but now that I see it, I prefer the simplicity of water falling straight down. This waterfall has none of the adventurous Roaring Burn on its way down. This is a short, almost gnarled waterfall that, while radiating pure power, does not make any graceful dance steps. Next to the waterfall is Bell Rock, a rock that was once hollowed out by spinning water and then tumbled down from a great height to land upside down. I crawl in through a small hole. There I can straighten my knees and back and right above me is the bell-shaped hole from which the rock gets its name. Very special, what nature is  capable of. But the boat awaits and that means that I will not linger. I need two suspension bridges to cross the beds of Poseidon Creek. Only the first contains water, so the rain is not that heavy. Tree ferns reappear along the path. I walk along Lake Ada, but only once in a while does the forest allow me a view of the water. The lake was created by an enormous landslide 900 years ago and the sad trunks of beech trees still stick out above the water. I am now starting to long for a shelter. In the expectation that it will not last too long, I postpone a snack. But the path goes on and on. Every now and then the path climbs and my legs are happy with the effort. Then, finally, there is a shelter at Giant Gate Falls. They are two large covered benches, but I lower myself onto them gratefully and am happy to be able to take off my backpack. A chocolate covered muesli bar further elevates my mood. From there it’s not far to Sandfly Point, where I enjoy a beautiful view of the Milford Sound. Until the boat comes, I join the other hikers in the shelter as Sandfly Point lives up to its name despite the rain. It's a wrap. One last look at the mountains, the falls continue to flow without us. A small boat takes us indecently quickly back to the harbor. I am already homesick for this track. I would do it again in a heartbeat. What a great experience. This is a memory I will cherish.

View my pictures of this hike here.