Queenstown, huh? It’s a zoo
Te Araroa Trail | Day 16
Te Araroa is a 2996km long backcountry trail that was opened in 2011 to link Cape Reinga, the North Island’s most northerly point with the end of Highway 1 in Bluff, close to the most southerly point in the South Island.
After 14 days walking the 280km from Invercargill I had just about made it to Queenstown. My night had been spent camped outside the popular Greenstone Hut. Here are thoughts from Day 16 . . .
At some point the whole shebang needed drying.
Not sure if the tent could get damper, either inside or out: a shower the previous night to drench the outside, a bucket of condensation internally in the morning. The sleeping bag was similarly afflicted.
To be honest the dampness, while somewhat clammy, uncomfortable in a minor way, didn’t feel like the End of the World. I might wish for a perfect world but I could get along okay with the one on offer.
That all encouraged getting up, and saying Mornin’ to the hut inhabitants, well, those who had emerged from the twin bunk rooms at an early stage in the day. It was an enormous pleasure to spend some time on a bench seat with a table to make brekkie when you lived in a tent. And some early morning enthusiasm from the irrepressible P if I required additional motivation.
Eventually I packed up. Civilisation was on the agenda for the day.
Let me at it.
I found from the hut book I had been a resident on 26 October the previous year, so there were few surprises as I made my way towards the roadend car park, other than the weather was finally fine, some mist early on. That all cleared to blue sky, cool, ie, perfect marching weather once I applied the sunscreen.
When I came through these parts previously I had been walking the official Greenstone Track, then immediately looped my way back on the Caples, needing to end up in Te Anau. At that time I did the diversion around the secluded Lake Rere, avoiding the lower Greenstone Gorge and indulged in some mighty fine views of Lake Wakatipu for free instead.
This time I thought the standard Greenstone Track was the way to go, when I had a sniff of civilisation after two weeks rampaging through the backcountry it seemed there was some instinct that took over: get me there as speedily as possible.
I met a contingent on the march, a party of ten on a guided walk, name tags pinned on, everyone looking fresh and frisky, the initial few looking around at their surroundings vigorously, the laggards already enquiring how far it might be to the hut. (I informed them that they had scarcely covered 5% of the distance, as they took my sudden appearance as an excuse for a breather.) Then came a random bunch, probably another ten, not in single file like the named tagged lot, they were in groups of two or travelling solo. They must have been the passengers from the 12 noon bus, so I’d missed the bus. No hurry then, although I never intended to get that $50 trip to Queenstown, I would be chancing my luck with my thumb.
When I made it to the car park there were quite a few vehicles, but no one around.
A note here, there is a break in Te Araroa at this point due to having to get around the 80 km long Lake Wakatipu. Te Araroa officially stops at the little used Greenstone Wharf down on the lake and begins again, somewhere, across the lake in Queenstown. No point in hanging around the wharf, ferries don’t come that far and the cost of a water taxi to Queenstown would be exorbitant.
Hitching is considered entirely acceptable, actually the only feasible alternative to the bus due to the lack of a track around the lake and the crazy traffic along the wilder parts of the Queenstown Road. It is pointed out by the purists that Queenstown is technically south of the Greenstone roadend so it wasn’t considered cheating. There was similar flexibility offered with crossing the potentially dangerous Rangitata and Rakaia Rivers as you head north. I guess the long-term solution would be to build a walkway along the south side of Lake Wakatipu from Frankton, some parts were already in place for a new cycleway but the final links and additional landholder negotiations were yet to be achieved.
I walked 4 km down the gravel road, herding a flock of belligerent sheep in front, they alternated between sprinting vigorously and just mooching unconcerned in usual sheep fashion until they noticed my hulking presence stalking up the gravel road again. I passed the Greenstone Homestead and shortly after a four wheel drive pulled up to take me to the junction with the Paradise Road. There was more traffic potential there, tourists were on the prowl from Queenstown in their rental cars, but for once I enjoyed standing out in the sunshine, organising my caboodle for my imminent civilisation experience.
The first car along stopped, a Chinese couple, who had difficulty understanding the zany New Zealand one way bridge system. There was a Give Way sign prominently displayed before one of those narrow bridges you encounter up the Dart River valley, yes, it was actually one way, only room for one car width, but my driver charged ahead and was entirely surprised to find that there wasn’t much room for the oncoming car, already on the bridge, to get past, it was a tight fit for just an average vehicle. He abruptly slammed on the brakes and having to back some distance, speed having been gained, collided at pace with the guard rails, causing the rental company some paperwork.
The driver had only been in the country 12 hours, arriving while I had been finishing the Mavora Greenstone Walkway. It was a hire car with insurance, no worries. Somehow I felt he may not have understood the fine print of the contract.
I survived and made it to Glenorchy. The first car zipped past, then dangerously turned around to pick me up, taking a nervous passenger rally car style to town, with me all the while thinking my now lightly filled pack on my knees must surely operate like an air bag in case of emergency.
Three rides, each time the first car. Drivers: German, Chinese and a Sikh, complete with extensive turban. Just the one accident.
My first choice campsite out behind a backpackers was full, that knowledge acquired from my standard interrogation of Sobos. Queenstown was chocker unsurprisingly, it was the heart of the main summer tourist season, but I found an alternative soon enough, this whole town is about places to stay for holidaymakers, oh, and spending money. I was allotted a small patch of grassless clay on the edge of a vast space that filled up with campervans as the evening progressed. I was on the periphery with the backpackers camping in the back of their battered station wagons, or in tents, and a less numerous assortment of bike tourers.
My tent went up in the sunshine, not a cloud to be seen now, my sleeping bag out getting that much needed airing, it might be a dry old night finally.
Some fresh food and a mighty long, hot shower. Once again not as much of a tan as I had thought although my face was looking nuggety.
But man, Queenstown was a zoo, a total change from the solitude of the Mavora Walkway and what preceded. A crazy holiday town, many backpackers out for a good time, or just holiday makers in evidence, just jetted in for a few days, plenty of bare, tanned flesh, more than a few tattoos on display, it was full-on summer all of the sudden, any recent snow gone from the Remarkables.
The streets in town were packed with tourists out for an immediate good time, still buzzing with adrenaline after their tandem parachute jumps, jet boat rides, or zany mountain bike downhills, now all looking for some city action, perhaps not knowing where to start while the sun was still shining and their alcohol level at low tide mark. Groups of tanned spiky haired boys eyed up groups of tanned pony-tailed girls who were flaunting their attributes, both real and imagined, and staring into their phones, pretending not to notice.
Down at the beach at the edge of the lake a few exhibitionists were braving the cool waters. A large audience was observing any action, like para-gliders coming into land, or a large jet boat thumping its way slowly into port. There was a circuit filled with older promenaders, most seem to have got past the point of wanting to hold hands, just walking in proximity enough even on holiday, those that did might be on the second time around, romance rekindled.
One thing for sure, everyone was clutching those phones, or iPads, and, as often the case these days, many were more interested in the screen than their companions. Surely, can there be something, somewhere else, that was more interesting? Somehow I felt that maybe they were just looking for feedback on what a magnificent time they were having.
Maybe I could cope with two nights in town to fully recharge my batteries.
They do need somewhat of a boost.
Might get this mingling with people thing out of my system.
This is an extract from the e-book, soon to be a paperback, called, err,
I recount my thoughts and experiences when I walked the South Island section of Te Araroa, from Bluff to Ship Cove in the Summer of 2015. Oh, and there were 16 days getting as far south as is sensible to walk in New Zealand, down on Stewart Island/Rakiura, as a pre-amble.
The book is based on a blog originally written for my tramping New Zealand website.
