Dusky Track

Posted on January 12, 2018 by Cam

The Dusky Track is one of New Zealand’s toughest hikes. Measuring some 84 km (52 mi) from
beginning to end, it crosses two mountain ranges, three valley systems, and includes some of the
wettest, muddiest and buggiest conditions you are ever likely to encounter. I realize that sounds pretty
ordinary, however, compensation comes in the form of some of the most spectacular wilderness
scenery the South Island has to offer. Additionally, there are wonderful lakes for swimming, lots of
solitude, and the satisfaction of knowing you have completed one of New Zealand’s most challenging
treks. I hiked the Dusky in early 2010. All information has been updated as of January, 2018.

Details
Distance : 52.2 miles (84 km)
Difficulty Level: Challenging
Avg. Time :
 7 to 9 days. This estimate can vary significantly, depending on the conditions, along with the
fitness, pack weight and experience of the hiker. Strong trekkers that have a decent weather
window can comfortably do the the tramp (Kiwi-speak for “hike”) in four days, whereas slower folks
and/or hikers that just feel like taking their time, may take eight or nine.
Start / Finish :
 Lake Hauroko – Lake Manapouri. The track can be done in either direction.
 There is daily transport to and from the West Arm of Lake Manapouri from Te Anau (30 min).
 Access to the trailhead on Lake Hauroko is less frequent. As of January, 2018, the only regular
services were with Lake Hauroko Tours on Mondays and Thursdays during the hiking season
(see below). Bookings need to be made in advance.
 Season :
 Beginning of November to the end of April.
 The Dusky Track is situated in the Fiordland region of New Zealand’s South Island. Freezing
temps, heavy rain, high winds and snow can occur at any time of year (sometimes on the same
day). Indeed, according to the DOC, Fiordland receives “an average of about seven metres of
rain falls per year, over an average of about 200 rain-days per year. Don’t forget your rain
jacket!” An ironic sense of humour, positive mindset, head net, and some extra food for storm
delays, may also come in handy.

Rainy views and misty skies.

Maps / Info :
 Topographic Maps: Three sheets from the Topo50 series cover the entire trek. They are CD06
Deep Cove, CE05 Cooper Island and CE06 Lake Roe. The only one you really need is
the CE06, which encompasses more than 90% of the track. The sections it doesn’t cover are the
initial few kilometres from the West Arm of Lake Manapouri, and the final few kilometres before
Supper cove. However, in both cases the trail is obvious and a topographic map is not really
needed. The Topo50 series maps are widely available throughout NZ in outdoors Stores and DOC
offices, or alternatively you can download them for free from the Land Information New
Zealand website.

Supper Cove.

 Trekking Notes: For a basic summary of each section, along with estimated hiking times, see
the Dusky Track page on the Department of Conservation (DOC) website. For more detail,
try Duskytrack.blogspot.com.
 GPS Information: See Duskytrack.blogspot.com for GPX files and elevation profiles for the entire
track.
 Guidebook: Lonely Planet’s Tramping in New Zealand (2006) describes the Manapouri to Supper
cove section of the route, however, the stretch from Loch Maree to Lake Hauroko is mentioned
only in brief. Save your money and give this guidebook a miss. Most hikers will be fine with the
above-mentioned topographic map, along with a compass and/or GPS (Note: The 2014 edition of
this Lonely Planet guide doesn’t include the Dusky Track).
 Up-to-date Information: See the DOC website for all the latest on trail closures and/or other
changes to the route.
 Water: Plentiful. I never filtered and had no issues. Each of the huts has its own rain water tank.

Loch Maree

Route / Conditions :
 The trail is reasonably well marked throughout with orange blazes.
 The Dusky track rivals the Northwest Circuit on Stewart island for the title of New Zealand’s
muddiest tramp. The going is often slow (e.g. 1 to 2 km per hour) and particular care must be taken
on the descent from Centre Pass, and also the descent to Loch Maree if you are walking south to
north.
 In addition to the mud, there are 21 three-wire bridges, numerous creek/river crossings and a
constant stream of slippery, moss-covered roots and rocks to negotiate. Note that after periods of
heavy rain, certain sections of the trail may become impassable due to flooding.

 The Lake Roe and Lake Horizon area in the Pleasant Ranges is one of the scenic highlights of the
hike. In clear weather, the views west towards Dusky Sound are spectacular.
 Side Trip: I highly recommend doing the side trip from Loch Maree to Supper Cove in Dusky
Sound. Don’t miss taking a well-earned dip at the gorgeous swimming hole/waterfall, situated about
30 minutes from the turnaround point. When the weather is fine, this place is like something out of
a Tahitian postcard. This out-and-back hike can be done in a day, or even better, you can overnight
at the beautifully situated Supper Cove Hut.

Swimming hole just before Supper Cove Hut.

Sleeping :
 Huts on the Dusky track are cheap ($5 per night), rarely crowded and provide a welcome respite
from the sandflies. They all have bunks for between 10 and 12 people, and no advance bookings
are necessary.
 Fiordland is one of the wettest, muddiest, most sandfly-infested areas you are ever likely to
encounter. My advice is to leave your tent at home. If you’re a light sleeper, be sure to bring some
ear plugs.
 Lake Roe Hut (photo from the DOC website)
Final Notes :

 The Dusky Track is a challenging route, suitable for experienced and appropriately-equipped
hikers. Apart from the beautiful scenery, I loved the solitude and the challenging nature of the
terrain. One of my favourite hikes in New Zealand.
 Even though you are unlikely to see a lot of other hikers, chances are you will be sharing the huts
along the way with at least a few other intrepid souls. Indeed, one of my fondest memories of my
Dusky Track experience, was laughing and joking at days ends with fellow trampers. Not
surprisingly, much of the humour was related to the mud and rain. It’s difficult to exaggerate just
how much of it there really is!

Welcome to the Dusky Track!

AREA
Fiordland National Park
TIME
8-10 days
GRADE
Difficult
ACCOM.
Upper Spey Hut ($5, 12 bunks); Kintail Hut ($5, 12 bunks); Loch Maree Hut ($5, 12 bunks);
Supper Cove Hut ($5, 12 bunks); Lake Roe Hut ($5, 12 bunks); Halfway Hut ($5, 12 bunks);
Hauroko Burn Hut ($5, 10 bunks)
ACCESS
Most people walk in the opposite direction to that described in this story. Both ends of the
track are only accessible by boat. Some parties fly into Supper Cove by float plane or
helicopter, then walk out
MAP
CD06, CE05, CE06
LINKS/FILES
Download the route notes, map and GPX file
Transport: Lake Hauroko Tours
Ray Salisbury survives New Zealand’s hardest hike – Fiordland’s Dusky Track

Our meticulous planning had us book the bus, boats and backpacker beds months in advance. Alas,
we couldn’t book the weather. Doing the Dusky, New Zealand’s most difficult track, is not
straightforward. The 84km route is about the same length as the Heaphy, but takes twice as long due
to the rugged terrain. It’s similar to the Milford Track, in that both track ends are only accessible by
boat. But all similarities with Great Walks end there.

Mention the Dusky to those in the know and you will hear tales of knee-deep mud, voracious sandflies
and non-stop rain. It’s a true classic, a rite of passage. It has a splendidly nasty reputation.

Our trio embark on a Real Journeys vessel at Pearl Harbour, a stone’s throw from Manapouri.
Surrounded by a horde of camera-toting tourists, we cross the 414m deep lake renowned for its fickle
and furious winds. Today, however, all is calm as we slide past such landmarks as The Monument
and The Beehive.

Gazing at the view, I recall that a pioneering family first opened up this region to tourists. In 1900,
Robert Murrell built huts at West Arm and Deep Cove. Later, his son Les repaired them and ran a
guided tramp to Doubtful Sound, rivalling the Milford Track. In 1954, a different Les – Hutchins –
purchased the Murrell’s boats and operations; these eventually evolved into the present-day Real
Journeys operation. Sadly, the walking track was destroyed to make way for the road over Wilmot
Pass.

An hour’s sailing to West Arm brings us to New Zealand’s largest hydro-electric power station. We
board the busses headed for Deep Cove – at the head of Doubtful Sound – but after 10 minutes, the
driver drops us off at the trailhead.

We heft heavy 10-day packs and disappear into the ribbonwood and dense beech. An hour of strolling
along the mid-reaches of the Spey River, and our brisk pace is brusquely halted at the first bog. My
new gaiters are baptised in knee-deep mud; I am being swallowed by the track. Fighting to stay
upright, it takes a huge effort to manoeuvre onto solid ground.

The afternoon slips by and we encounter the first of 21 walk-wires – three cables strung taut between
tree trunks. We climb on to the structure, then cautiously traverse the lower wire like a tightrope,
holding onto the high wires with both hands.

We play a game of ‘I Spey with my little eye’ to amuse ourselves, before a boardwalk betrays the
location of Upper Spey Hut. A black cloud of sandflies enshrouds the cabin, so we dive inside, boots
’n all.

Trampers depart Lake Roe Hut for drier and warmer climes. Photo: Ray Salisbury

We are not alone. Honeymooners from Auckland are doing their first South Island tramp. A mature
German couple arrive later, looking worse for wear.

The good weather is holding – just – as we dance along boardwalks that give a false sense of
security. The track abruptly hits the valley wall and climbs mercilessly upward, with no switchbacks. A
60-degree rock step requires careful footwork to ascend. Eventually, we top out into a hanging valley;
a subalpine world of tussock and beautiful wild flowers.

The track meanders up and over Centre Pass; the sheer face of Mt Memphis, 1405m, looms large to
our left, luring my companions up the hill in search of a higher viewpoint. I am content to eat lunch,
and chase a lone kea with my camera.

A chill southerly funnels through the saddle and ominous clouds are building. I wrap myself in
polarfleece, sheltering behind a wall of packs. After an age, Malcolm and David return jubilant from
the summit of Memphis. I lead off downhill where the trail cuts a silver thread through a tussock basin,
skirting a smattering of tiny tarns. But below the bushline, we strike an impasse: a three-metre drop
that needs some nerve to negotiate. Beyond this hazard, the terrain is rooted and rough underfoot; a
relentless full-body workout that saps our energy.

As we pass through the cloud layer, the distant outline of Gair Loch is revealed, with the impossibly
angled pyramid of Tripod Hill towering above. We are nearly at the bottom of the hill, but the Dusky
isn’t finished with us. A couple of cliffs fall away below. Malcolm free-climbs out of view, while David
and I abseil down using the long lengths of chain.

Striding out beside Kintail Stream, we encounter impassable tree-fall. We follow a marked detour and
cross a pair of walk-wires to finally reach the safety of Kintail Hut, which has squatted near the
Seaforth River since 1975. We have been on our aching feet for nine hours and feel exhausted.

Next morning, David boils the billy. Rain hammers the hut roof and I want a pit day. My mates urge
me into action. Wrapped in raincoats, we stroll past the restful reaches of Gair Loch. We march
across river flats, searching for elusive markers in the scrub. Side-streams are forded, wet boots are
‘the new normal’. Sweating in the humidity, we strip down to tee-shirts and shorts.
At our riverside lunch spot, a lone whio glides across the river. It is a touch of serendipity that lifts our
flagging spirits. Later, we find ourselves hanging onto a handrail chain above the river, trusting tiny
footholds to support our weight.

The entire valley has widened; the Seaforth River has slowed to a snail’s pace, snaking from bank to
bank, before merging into Loch Maree. Here, rotting stumps punctuate the moody waters; remnants
of a drowned forest.

Loch Maree Hut follows the 12-bunk design of Chief Ranger Murray Schofield who, in 1967,
supervised borstal inmates to develop the Dusky Track. Not much has changed since. Ducks quack,
pigeons preen their fat bellies. Malcolm reads the pile of ancient Nat Geos while David prepares
supper – but only after implementing his search-and-destroy policy on every sandfly trapped inside
the hut.

In the morning, David coaxes the cooker to life and we drink tea before returning to the track, skirting
the misty shores of the loch, traipsing over three-wires, which are now so familiar we no longer fear
falling from them.

Under an oppressive layer of cumulonimbus, the sunlight seems exhausted. By the time it reaches
the forest floor, it’s but a memory. Then the rain comes down – in bucket loads. But we’re wearing
yesterday’s wet gear so we don’t care.

The Seaforth seems lethargic, like me, slowly moving toward the Tasman. The only sound is the
unremitting rain and our boots trudging through the sludge. Occasionally, we hear birdsong or pass a
magnificent cascade which interrupts the eerie silence.

This section of trail to Dusky Sound was cut in 1903 by 50 gold miners, under orders from the
government. They were paid $1.25 a day. But the miners quit not far beyond Loch Maree. I could only
assume the wet, mud and vicious sandflies drove them out. But they weren’t the first white men in
these parts. That honour belongs to Sir Thomas Mackenzie, who mapped an overland route to Dusky
Sound between 1894 and 1896. He was to become New Zealand’s 18th prime minister.

Loch Maree Hut was home to tramping troubadours from around the world. Photo: Ray Salisbury

We strike a regular rhythm along pleasant river flats and I begin to enjoy myself at last. We are
travelling through our own private worlds, singing hymns, or tunes recalled from our childhood…
‘Mud, mud, glorious mud!’

After five hours, there is the roar of a tumultuous waterfall plummeting through foliage into a frothing
pool and we emerge from the suffocating forest into the open, north-eastern corner of Dusky Sound.
This fiord was named by Captain James Cook in 1770 and explored on his second voyage in 1773 by
longboat as far as the Seaforth River.

Standing on the shores of Supper Cove, our elation is short-lived; the tide had not dropped sufficiently
for us to cross the mudflats directly to Hilda Burn Hut. A painstaking detour is undertaken, scrambling
through moss-covered wind-throw and over arthritic roots.

In 1910, an ambitious attempt was made to introduce Canadian Moose into Fiordland. Hand-reared in
Canada, four bulls and six cows were quarantined on Somes Island and shipped in crates to the
remote reaches of Dusky Sound. The last moose was shot in 1971. However, the hut book tells tales
of catching rig shark, groper and blue cod in these murky waters. So Malcolm tries his luck with a
land-line using salami bait. Thunder resonates, then the full force of a front hits, sending us scurrying
like drowned rats to the shelter.

Fog cloaks the sheer walls of the fiord in the morning. Supper Cove is in a sombre mood, like me.
Assuming the exposed tidal flats will provide a quicker exit, we splash into the freshwater outflow, but
my friends soon turn back. I stubbornly push on, cautiously fording the Hilda Burn at the mouth, aware
that if I stumble, the current could send me seaward.

Inching around a peninsula, I clamber around sunken trees at a snail’s pace, chest-deep in the dark,
brooding waters. Then the rain begins to fall. With the incoming tide and the threat of sharks, I revoke
my foolish decision and return to the hut. As Shackleton once said to his wife: ‘Better a live donkey,
than a dead lion.’ Soaked to the skin, some 40 minutes behind, I am subdued. On the treacherous
high-water route I lose the track markers, but manage to keep calm, and carry on.

Reunited with my mates, we head up the brown Seaforth River, now boiling over its banks, convulsing
like an electrically stimulated muscle. I keep moving to maintain my body heat, splashing through
tannin-stained streams and muddy bogs with a contempt I didn’t have yesterday.

It takes six hours to return to Loch Maree Hut. Two Aussies are in residence and we indulge in good-
natured banter about World Cup rugby. Soon, the hut gets busy as a Frenchman, Englishman and a
Cantabrian arrive.

Waking to heavy rain, Malcolm and David visit the long walk-wire spanning the Seaforth. Our escape
route is flooded; the surging torrent has risen nearly two metres, cutting off access to the Lake Roe
route. I secretly smile: rest days are the best days.

By late afternoon the rain has abated, so we return to the bridge. The water has dropped and a Czech
hiker appears. He wades across, chest-deep, to the ladder, and joins us on the walkwire. By early
evening, more trampers arrive and the 12-bunker is chocka, wet clothing hangs everywhere.

It’s midnight when the rain returns with a vengeance. I can’t sleep with worry. Will we be trapped for
another day? An entire week?

At 5.30am, David disappears into darkness. He’s back at 6am, white-faced and imploring us to depart
immediately – it could be our only opportunity. We stash sweaty sleeping bags into our damp packs
and creep outside.

In the gloomy half-light, we tiptoe along the steel cable and descend the access ladder to discover the
water has dropped a whole metre. Splashing to the security of the far bank, we pause to brew tea at
the emergency shelter and scoff a hasty breakfast by torchlight.

The arduous ascent onto the Pleasant Range begins immediately. According to local deer-culler Val
MacKay, he was asked to mark this route for the Park Board in the early 1960s. He assumed the
track cutters would add in zigzags, but they didn’t. As we crawl up, it becomes a rushing waterway
and we climb a vertical rock face, using a chain for support.

Eventually the treeline is reached and snow poles beckon us upward, climbing over the knobs and
unnamed peaks of the Pleasant Range, a total misnomer: the land is sodden, the rain relentless, and
I am soaked through. I feel the onset of hypothermia, my thighs are burning and I’m short of breath.
We head further into the fog, then sidle around Lake Horizon.

Finally, our roller coaster ride drops to Furket Pass and Lake Roe Hut. The deluge worsens once
we’re safely inside. I stoke the woodstove in a feeble attempt to heat the hut.

While sorting through our dwindling rations, we debate the difference between mist, drizzle, light rain
and a real storm. Will our sketchy assortment of pita bread and muesli bars be enough? At least the
sandflies can’t touch us, here in the clouds.

Malcolm tiptoes along the three wire bridge over the swollen Seaforth River. Photo: Ray Salisbury
After a deserved sleep-in, we emerge from our soft world of down and fleece and stumble into the
mist. The wind is gusting; the rain steady. We haven’t seen the sun for an entire week.

Days of perspiration has dried on my clothes; my chin is prickly from a week without shaving. But this
rough living has awakened something deeper inside my soul. A slow realisation occurs and the
suffering becomes almost enjoyable, as if all the rain, the wilderness itself, were an acid dissolving the
superficial shell of urban existence.

We descend into the headwaters of Hauroko Burn. Skirting Lake Laffy to drop into the saturated bush
we are soon on level ground and our pace lengthens over the easiest section of the trail.

In just 3.5hr we burst through a clearing, break the sandfly barrier and enter Halfway Hut. David soon
has a fire roaring in the open hearth.

Long after dawn, we peer outside to see streaks of pale blue between the puffy clouds. Easy flats
along Hauroko Burn lull us into a sleepwalk.

We spot a flock of excited mohua, another touch of magic that lifts our mood. The final leg is
delightfully cruisey, parallel to the Hauroko, which is now a spent force, sluggishly seeping into the
lake. There’s just one last walkwire before a forest of crown ferns and horopito to the Lake Hauroko
shoreline. Malcolm and I strip to our shorts and bathe in the country’s deepest lake – 462m.

Two hunters arrive in their boat. Inside Hauroko Burn Hut, they feed us beef sausages and we chat by
candlelight. Their dogs are content to sleep on the floor, beneath the bottom bunks.

After 10 days, all that is left to do is wait for our scheduled boat ride. The appropriately named Namu
(Maori for sandfly) arrive mid-morning.

The Dusky Track deserves its rugged reputation. If soft living kills the soul, then doing the Dusky
brings a deep awareness of feeling alive; a long-lasting sense of satisfaction.

It was so far, yet so good.

Swirling wind hurls rain at us, like someone throwing cups of water into our faces. By the time my
friend Jeff Wilhelm and I have gone 50 yards on New Zealand’s Dusky Track, we have both sunk to
our knees a dozen or more times into the heaviest, gloppiest, boot-suckingest mud that I have ever
mired a leg in. Our first steps in what may be the most dishonestly named mountains in the world—
the Pleasant Range in chronically soggy Fiordland National Park—do not bode well.

I glance back at the Lake Roe Hut, but we didn’t come here to hide out in a shelter. Nothing to do but
cinch the gaiters and tighten the hood. We continue across an almost treeless, alpine landscape of
knee-high grass. Boggy tussock masquerades as earth, but the ground seems more liquid than solid.
Our mode of travel falls somewhere between walking on water and wading through land.

We claw up a crazy-steep hillside of rain-slicked grass and stop in our ankle-deep tracks. The view
makes me forget the brackish mix of rain and sweat dripping from my nose. A vast, mystical plateau
dappled with scores of tiny tarns and a few bigger lakes sprawls ahead of us. The plateau falls away
abruptly into glacier-carved valleys and fjords that stretch for miles to the South Pacific. In all
directions, rainforest-shrouded mountains loom in the fog. It’s absolutely quiet, except for the
threatening moans of the wind and the explosive farting sound our boots make each time we pry them
from another quagmire.

The Fiordlands' annual rainfall—more than 20 feet—grows a brushy obstacle course.

Photo by Ben Wiesenfarth
I look back toward the Lake Roe Hut to gauge our progress—and see that in 45 minutes of walk-
wading, we have covered about 400 yards.

Jeff and I have come to backpack a four-day section (about half) of Fiordland’s 52-mile Dusky Track,
from Lake Roe Hut to the track’s northern terminus at the West Arm of Lake Manapouri. We chose
the Dusky for a reason that can seem, at first blush, either a little masochistic or just plain dumb:
We’re intrigued by its reputation as the hardest hut-to-hut trek in New Zealand. To us, though, this
isn’t about something as shallow as bragging rights. Jeff and I are both past 50; our pride has gone
the way of our ability to sleep through the night without getting up to pee. Having done enough stupid-
hard treks for several lifetimes, we have nothing to prove.

We know we can handle the suffering. What captivated us was the Dusky’s more subtle promise: the
chance to experience the New Zealand wilderness the way it must have been a generation ago,
before the hordes of international trail-trophy seekers invaded. Thanks to its reputation, the Dusky can
feel all but deserted compared to other Fiordlands trails, like the famed Milford and Kepler Tracks.

Now, though, as my outer layers double in weight with a layer of Fiordland mud, a more profound
question enters my mind: Sure, we know we won’t quit out here. But can we suffer like we used to
and still enjoy it?

Jeff Wilhelm negotiates the descent to Loch Maree

Photo by Michael Lanza
The Dusky Track may be unique in the variety of misfortunes it presents. Blowdowns can slow your
pace to a crawl (literally). Absurdly steep and slick “root ladders” are just as sketchy as their name
implies. “Walkwires,” unnerving three-wire bridges that would pucker the sphincters of the Flying
Wallendas, offer the only safe—relatively speaking—river crossings at times of high water. Flooded
rivers can strand you for days, and flooding is not rare: Fiordland receives more than 20 feet of rainfall
annually, about seven times as much as Seattle. Park officials recommend Dusky hikers carry a
personal locator beacon, a mountain radio—both available for rent locally—and emergency bivy
sacks. We pack all three.

The route is marked, but calling it a trail would be a very generous use of the term. The first four
hours, we average barely more than half a mile an hour. By afternoon, we’ve begun the descent to
Loch Maree, where the trail plummets almost 3,000 vertical feet in less than a mile and a half.

For more than two hours, we downclimb nearly vertical ladders of slick tree roots and rocks—
unnerving sections that pose the very real prospect of a femur-shattering tumble. We grab onto fixed
ropes and chains wherever they’re available. I’m surprised it doesn’t have a technical rating. I’d call
the terrain 5.4 rainforest—a little harder if you have to devote one hand to slapping at sandflies.

Staggering into Loch Maree Hut at the end of the day, I wipe the mud off my watch and look at the
time: It took us six hours to hike 3.7 miles from Lake Roe Hut. From legs to shoulders, my entire body
feels like I just put in a 20-mile day in the Tetons, and I’m as wet as I’ve ever been from rain and
sweat. Moments later, Jeff steps through the door, dripping mud, and bellows, “That was epic.” He
doesn’t mean it fondly. We exchange wide-eyed looks that say: “Could every day be that hard?”

Dusky Track hikers cross 21 walkwires

Photo by Ben Wiesenfarth
A couple hours later, three guys stumble in to join us in the basic, one-room shelter, which, like most
huts on the Dusky, sleeps up to 12 people and has wooden tables and chairs and a wood-burning
stove for heat. This will be our most “crowded” hut on the route (we’ll only see two other people in four
days). On other Fiordland hut treks, like the Kepler, I’ve encountered dozens of hikers daily, and the
huts almost always require reservations.

The hikers—a Belgian in his 30s and two Frenchmen in their 20s—are traveling the Dusky in the
opposite direction. This is their first visit to New Zealand. When I ask why they chose such an unlikely
first track, one of the Frenchmen grins and says, “Because it is the hardest!” Jeff and I offer no
response. We’ve been their age; we know they have to learn on their own the pointlessness of
suffering for its own sake. We aren’t in the business of saving young men from themselves.

After a night of coma-like sleep, all five of us step outside early. The rain has stopped. Mist dangles
like a curtain over Loch Maree, a small lake surrounded by steep slopes. Swords of sunlight slash
through the mist, silhouetting hundreds of beech stumps that rise two or three feet above the lake’s
glassy surface. The water reflects green and gold mountainsides and blue sky.

It’s an image I’ll remember forever. Along with yesterday’s mud-boarding.

Loch Maree hut

Photo by Michael Lanza
Standing on a tree root ball not much bigger than my boots, inches above brown water of unknown
depth, I peer into the gray light. By all appearances, nothing lies ahead but a muddy stream sliding
lazily into a brown pond with trees growing out of it. But in fact, orange markers indicate that the
Dusky Track plows straight across this stream and pond. It’s our third day, and any hope of the track
getting easier has long since faded.

I stretch and lunge from one partly submerged root ball to the next, trying to avoid disappearing into
this organic stew, where I can imagine my bones and flesh spending the next million years
transforming into a quart of sweet crude.

And yet I feel a smile crease my face. Hopping from root ball to root ball is kind of fun, in a small-kid-
climbing-a-big-tree sort of way.

Somewhere behind me, Jeff erupts in a series of F-bombs. In a tone suggesting our experiences
might not be totally in sync, he yells: “I’m stuck!” Hesitant to risk spending eternity as a fossil fuel, I
wait on a relatively secure root island, calculating that his chances of extracting himself are pretty
good (patience in moments like these is one benefit of reaching a “mature” age). When Jeff finally
sloshes toward me, his pants plastered brown, he tells me through labored panting, “I was stuck hip-
deep in mud! I didn’t think I was gonna get out! I thought I was gonna die there!”

Although my good friend Jeff occasionally veers into hyperbole, I congratulate him on his self-rescue,
and remind him that we didn’t get where we are in life by relying on others.

After escaping the root ball gauntlet, we reach a torn-off edge of earth where a wall of forest drops off
into a boulder-strewn gorge some 50 feet across. A walkwire spans the canyon, suspended at least
20 feet above the river—high enough that if a fall wasn’t fatal, you might lie there wishing it had been.
I’d seen pictures online, but eyeing the suspended wire live gives me pause. These skimpy spans
make wobbly, bamboo footbridges over raging cataracts in Nepal look like the Golden Gate Bridge.
Clutching the two handrail wires, I step gingerly onto the foot wire. Each time I slowly place one foot in
front of the other, the wire vibrates like a plucked guitar string; before I’m halfway across, it’s visibly
bouncing. I look down past my toes at the rocks two stories below—they’re hard to keep in focus
because of the up-and-down motion of the wire. The sensation is half nauseating, half thrilling. Make
that 90 percent thrilling.

Slow zone in the Spey River Valley

Photo by Michael Lanza
Once across, I look back at Jeff. The rushing stream drowns out our shouts. I motion for him to come
across. He plants one foot on the walkwire, scowls, shakes his head, and backs off it—a reasonable
choice I could see many hikers making. Jeff scrambles down to the creek and walks downstream to a
rock-hop crossing that’s possible because the water level is low. Then he’s crashing through the
jungle more than 100 feet downhill from me, bushwhacking up a steep, muddy slope so thickly
vegetated that I can’t see him—I can only hear his grunting and see ferns and other leafy plants
shaking as he yards on them. Twenty minutes after he backed off the walkwire, he reaches me
looking like a puppy rescued from a hurricane. He does not look even 10 percent thrilled.

Beyond the walkwire, we commence another brutal ascent of more than 2,000 vertical feet in just over
a mile—climbing root ladders, slogging through swamps, shimmying and slithering over and under
some of the most tangled piles of blown-down trees I’ve ever seen. It’s absurdly steep and complex
terrain. Only the orange route markers keep us from looking for a better way.

After more than two hours of jungle thrashing, we emerge from the bush to green, rocky meadows
that remind me of the Scottish Highlands, only—and it stuns me to say this—wetter. A meandering
footpath leads us over 3,448-foot Centre Pass, where a chill wind blows through the cliff-flanked gap.

But it’s not raining. The clouds have broken up, and we get a view that’s even more special because
we know how rare it must be. Green mountains roll off into the distance. Rainforest sprouts from
sheer cliffs, many bearing the vertical, light-green scars of new vegetation growing in the wake of a
“tree avalanche,” which is exactly what the name suggests—a landslide of forest that’s grown so
dense on a cliff face that tree roots tear free—and which I had never heard of before visiting
Fiordland.

Jeff and I stop for lunch and to gape like happy idiots. My good friend, an English professor and one
of the most literate people I know, is reduced to a burbling fountain of vague superlatives by the
scenery. And we’re alone, of course. I’ve hiked for three decades all over the U.S. and the world, from
Iceland to remotest Patagonia, Nepal to Norway, in the Swiss Alps and Italy’s Dolomites, and twice
before here in New Zealand. I’ve never worked so hard for a view—or been so glad I did. It occurs to
me that not only am I enjoying this hike, but maybe my satisfaction is just a little bit deeper because of
all the trips that came before.

After the long descent from Centre Pass—and another exhausting day of averaging half a mile an
hour—Jeff and I reach the Upper Spey Hut for our final night. No one else shows up, even though this
is the first hut for hikers walking in the other direction. I don’t consider this fact worrisome until the rain
that falls softly at first builds into a drubbing like a thousand fists pounding the metal roof.

I awaken a couple times to its relentless, monsoonal drumming, and only then begin to wonder
whether the reason no hikers showed up here tonight is that the Spey River Valley, which awaits us
tomorrow, now lies under an impassable flood.
Rain is still pouring down in the morning, but we decide to attempt to hike out to the Dusky’s northern
terminus, where we’ll catch an hour-long ferry ride across Lake Manapouri. If the valley is impassable,
we can backtrack to the hut and avoid spending tonight in a tree.

Despite the unknown conditions ahead, the rain doesn’t put a damper on our mood as we follow the
Spey River. In fact, the weather lends a haunting beauty to the forest, with an ethereal fog rising from
the dense understory of ferns and grasses. It turns out the river has not flooded; apparently, that
requires more than a few inches of rain overnight. And there are no more root ladders or thickets of
blowdowns. We casually cross the last two walkwires—short spans that wobble less, but still feel
plenty exciting. Jeff walks them without any visible anxiety, and I think I even see him crack a smile.
We still plunge unexpectedly into knee-deep mud bogs, but they’ve somehow become routine, just
part of the trail.

It occurs to me that the Dusky Track is not just harder than most other hikes I’ve done; it’s a different
experience altogether. I have known extremes of wet, cold, and mud. I’ve come close to trench foot in
the Alaskan tundra and was thru-hiking Vermont’s Long Trail solo when the tail end of a hurricane
dropped some 10 inches of rain on the Green Mountains. The Dusky, though, eclipses them all—in a
way I hadn’t expected. It’s not just a hard, wet hike—it’s a full-body immersion in land and weather. It
forces you to interact with the landscape in a deep, tactile way. You have to slow down and traverse
the wilderness on its own terms.

The Dusky did eventually answer the question that it raised in my mind on our first day—but it also
reframed the question. Turns out, we could suffer even more than ever before and still enjoy it.

My advice to anyone heading for the Dusky—at any age—is this: Be patient. You’re sure to discover
the rewards out here, but you might not realize it until you’re hip-deep in them.

TRIP PLANNER
Getting there Te Anau serves as the Dusky’s gateway town. Trips and Tramps provides shuttles to
the trailhead ferries. Season December to March RouteThe full 44-mile Dusky Track is Y-shaped, but
trekkers choosing to do it all must backtrack one leg (usually the 8 miles between Loch Maree and
Supper Cove). That makes the entire route 52 miles. Plan at least eight days for the whole thing, or
do a shorter version by flying to Supper Cove or Lake Roe Hut. Shuttles Lake Manapouri ferries at
the northern end operate three times daily (NZ $45). Boats to the Lake Hauroko trailhead at the
track’s southern end operate on Mondays and Thursdays (NZ $99); The cheapest shortcut is a float
plane to Supper Cove (about NZ $330). Huts All huts have mattresses and pit toilets; BYO sleeping
bag, stove/pot, fuel, and food. Huts cost NZ $5/person per night. Buy hut tickets in advance at any
DOC office (no reservations required). Total cost $1,600 (round-trip airfare from L.A., shuttles, hut
tickets, lodging in Te Anau)

Michael Lanza is the author of Before They’re Gone: A Family’s Year-Long Quest to Explore
America’s Most Endangered National Parks. His wife and children are glad they didn’t join him on the
Dusky Track.