The Closest to Antarctica We May Ever Go

What started as an impairment to our view, became a key element in creating a wonderfully atmospheric and enchanting silent drama. Having gotten up early to see Lake Matheson, with the hope of still waters and a mirror image, the land was filled with low land fog.

As we walked around the lake edge to the viewing point, the fog began to lift and give way to a perfect picture. The dynamic view began almost black, white and grey and filled with colour as the began to sun crest the mountain range. The Southern Alps lay before us, both as backdrop and an image in the lake below.

I watched as a bird circled above the water, its path leaving a faint ring through the mist.

Crowds began to appear and we took it as our queue to depart. Making our way slowly back through the wooded track, I felt slightly mesmerised by the beautiful memory just created.

We left the West Coast by late morning, turning inland and reached Queenstown by the early evening. Our afternoon was filled with spectacular views, driving through wide open plains, occasionally a river running alongside our trail. Often surrounded by snow topped peaks as we drove through Mount Aspiring National Park, we were later met with winding roads and expansive lakes, though never seemed to leave those mountain vistas behind.

By the next evening we’d reached the small town of Glenorchy and after finding out there was no freedom camping in the town itself, found a secluded spot by the lake five minutes out of town. Here we found some wonderful peace, barely any movement or sound save for water gently lapping the shore.

Making our way from one picturesque point to the next, the next evening had us at the edge of Milford Sound where we camped in a basic ground, enclosed by woodland. We took a walk into the green surrounds, everything green from the floor to the sky where small spots of blue poked through the leaves above. Silent and still, the forest felt enchanted, the whole world here slept save for one lone bird hopping by my feet.

Our boat trip along the fjord was drastic as ever. Dwarfed by the valley walls we cut our way through the water, trying to take in the wealth of knowledge shared by our guide. The lack of rain meant there were fewer waterfalls than my previous visit, creating a whole new magic to meet my eyes. We watched as small falls carried by big winds rose until they reached toward the sky.

The next couple of days took us all further south than we had ever been. The land a hardy, weather beaten version of the North Island, much of it dedicated to farming. In the Catlins (the south west corner of the South Island), we witnessed a rare yellow penguin in a small beach cove where rocks beneath the water created fireworks within the waves.

The next morning I watched from our campsite as waves coursed through rocks mimicking an avalanche of snow, and in a moment of madness or bravery (I’m still not sure which), Mum and I took to the icy currents for one of the briefest swims of our lives!

From here there was nowhere to go but north. After an overnight stop in Dunedin and a short wander through the town, we reached the funky little town of Oamaru. Renowned for Steampunk and blue penguins, it has an olde world feel. Large stone structures lining the main street, an old railway line and the remains of long since used steam trains, all help create the quirky character of the town.

The final hot spot on the South Island was Mount Cook, the highest mountain in New Zealand. A test in the art of patience, we hoped for grey clouds to pass and the glacial peaks to fill the sky. We were never fully granted our wish but small breaks here and there did allow us to see many of the range’s peaks, though not the most famous. The landscape itself, not necessarily hindered by the weather, was given a dramatic edge as remnants of a northern cyclone drew near.

Two expansive valleys, flattened by the retreating glaciers, created the entryway to our viewpoints. It’s easy to take for granted as you drive toward a glacier now so accessible, the magnitude of nature’s power. Standing at the top of a pathway, glacier to one side, valley to the other, I tried to comprehend the story the land had to tell.

We had one more night among the wilderness on our journey north, in the green ranges of Lewis Pass. Stopping in a car park along one of those endlessly winding roads, two minutes from our door was a lake and in that lake were the snowy peaks of mountains, the sunset, the moon, the stars and the sunrise.