A Notable Walk (4)

Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, and the sight of Steve's ear-plugs inspires me to dig out my own and sleep like the dead for the duration of the night.
Tamsin is not so lucky.
"For the record," she says, "Both Cliff and Steve snore. It was like a competitive snoring match last night, and the heavy breathing German guy didn't help."
I ask who snored worse.
"Steve." She says, "He even managed to wake Cliff up."
But by the time I am awake, both Steve and Cliff are nowhere to be seen. While they are clearly noisy during the night, they were almost completely silent moving out of the dorm room.
When we emerge ourselves, we find that the weather forecast has been accurate on one score at least. The promised rain is once again absent, but the evening has bought snow.
"Down to six hundred metres." Noel observes. "As promised."
Before the hut, the face of Mount Balloon has become white. Like a wedge of chocolate cake dusted in icing sugar. But behind it, the sky remains once more blue and inviting.
By the time we start walking, the evidence of snow on the path is minimal. Foliage to each side of the route is capped with blobs of white here and there, but there is nothing to impede our progress in any way. But it does not take long for the path to angle upwards, as our ascent of the Mackinnon Pass begins in earnest, and before long we have caught up with the snow, and our footsteps are crunching through it, placed with more care and attention than usual.
The views, behind us down the Clinton valley, are glorious as they drop away from us, but Tamsin is still trying to preserve her final roll of film.
"The view's only going to get better," she says, "it's not worth taking a picture now."
She's right, but I take pictures anyway, risking blocking the path as I do so.
The path continues up, out of the trees and zig-zags up the side of the hill. Beneath us, the valley lunges downwards, and ahead of us, brightly coloured figures stand out in contrast against the white. The view becomes more spectacular, the more is revealed. The wintry landscape possesses a Narnia-like, magical quality, which of course belies how treacherous the footing could be, not to mention the effort required to lug our bags up the hill.
Eventually, however, we reach the memorial dedicated to Quintin Mackinnon and Ernest Mitchel, who first pioneered the Milford Track in 1888. The achievement of reaching the spot is tempered by the sight of a group of guided tour-party members being fed mugs of hot-chocolate by one of their tour-guides.
A bubbly looking woman from this group beams at us as we approach.
"So you finally made it then!" she says.
The look which Tamsin gives her has killed lesser mortals and injured countless others, but fails to dent the woman's demeanour.
Tamsin ignores her and looks at the view we have earned.
The pass acts as a saddle linking Mount Balloon to the east and Mount Hart to the west. Both peaks rise thunderously above us, dressed up in their pristine winter finery.
A grey and chilly tarn stretches out before us, swallowing snow-balls whole. They sink, unmelted beneath its surface.
Behind the monument, the view into the next valley can be seen, and it too is glorious. The Arthur Valley, flanked once more by snow-covered, craggy giants. We stand as near as we dare to the aptly named Twelve Second Drop, which is sheer and spectacular in a slightly queasy sort of way.
"So it is worth it, then." Tamsin says, as though she half wishes it were not.
"It's beautiful." She admits, "But."
The last word is emphatic.

The path levels out from the monument, but rises gently to the highest point on the entire track at 1154 metres. A utilitarian looking sign marks the occasion, but this is also the most exposed section of the path and so we do not linger too long, but instead start picking our way down the path on the other side, descending towards the Arthur River.
The sun is bright, and the snow around us is already starting to melt. Across the valley from us, the sheer sheets of white are more vulnerable, and our route downwards is punctuated by the sounds of distant avalanches, stark gunshots, cracking across the valley. Our own path is safe in this respect. A diversion in the track guides us away from any potentially dangerous areas, and the slopes behind us are too sparsely snowed to form any real threat, but never-the-less, the sight of falls of dust from peaks in the distance, and the sounds - reaching us only later, like echoing snaps and crackles - are enough to hasten our pace.
But the downhill path is heavy going. In fact, the word 'path' is a generous term for the well defined but awkwardly lumpy scrabble which leads us downwards back beneath the tree layer and towards the valley. The knees and the spine twinge as we lower ourselves down, and the melting snow in the branches above us, splashes down like a deferred rainfall.
It is slow work, and so wet and narrow that there is no practical place to stop for a proper rest, let alone to find a spot to crack open our lunch. But we persevere and eventually, a broad bridge takes us across the Roaring Burn, which is once more appropriately named.
The view from here is attractive: the water crashing down the oak-thick valley. We can see the start of a network of staircases and platforms which invitingly continue downhill, providing a more comfortable route than more rocky pathways. The first such platform is broad and friendly-looking - an ideal spot for lunch.

Lunch consists of cheese and salami, biscuits, fruit and fruit juice. We dump our bags gratefully and tuck in. It does not take long before we find ourselves with company. Not another member of our group, nor one of the guided walkers, but a kea.
Kea's are parrots which inhabit the South Island's high country forests and mountains. Their feathers are a drab military green, but the undersides of their wings are bright red. They are inquisitive, destructive and nosy and are referred to either as 'mountain clowns' or as 'bloody nuisances' depending on whom you ask.
New Zealand's sheep farmers certainly, have had problems with rogue keas, which occasionally prey on lame sheep in an unsavoury manor. Less savage, but certainly annoying, mountain keas tend to vandalise any walking equipment which is not hung up or put away, and many trampers have found their walking boots, left out to dry, are shredded when they come to put them back on again.
The kea who has come to visit during our lunch is clearly only after some food. He struts before us, his head cocked, regarding us beadily. He's a big creature too and completely unafraid. Any shoo-ing movements are responded too in a half-hearted sort of manner, and it becomes clear that it is only a matter of time before he will be sitting on our laps and helping himself if we don't pay attention.
The path continues downhill, the walkways and staircases following the river through the valley. The snow-layer is far behind us now - evidenced only by the caps of the mountains lurking before us, but the thawed ice has clearly fuelled the river further, and it storms along, the stone carved smooth by its insatiable progress.
Eventually, we stumble upon Quintin Hut - the luxury accommodation for the guided walkers that evening and still an hour distant from our own beds for the night.
Here, however, we are invited to drop our bags off in a storage room, and embark on a side trip to the Sutherland Falls, a further one-and-a-half hour round trip.
Tamsin opts to risk the sandflies and stay behind, nursing her knees as I jog off up the path, promising to be as quick as I can.
It's a strange feeling setting off on a diversion such as this without the weight of the bag which I have become used to. There is the potential danger, I imagine, that the going might seem too easy by comparison. But the path is undemanding, and it does not take long before the gutteral roaring of something lurks ahead of me behind the trees.
The Sutherland Falls are the highest permanent waterfalls in New Zealand, with water spewing out from 630 metres in an almighty, violent explosion of white-water, crashing to earth with the sort of torrential spray which drenches anyone who is foolish enough to consider spectating in an instant.
The sound alone is enough to untether the eardrums, but I manage to hear the mother of the Tasmanian family instructing her husband to take a group shot of the rest of them as close to the water as they dare.
I offer to take a photograph of the four of them, but the husband shakes his head.
"I think I'm close enough." He says.