Possum Socks and Trump Clumps

The Southern Scenic Route – a symphony of colours along the highway that links Queenstown and the iconic Milford Sound. White snow capped mountains, pale green slopes, yellow heather hiding in brown shrubs, lush silver ferns swaying in the crisp blue alpine air. Every moment an #instamoment.

With a day to spare in Queenstown, I decided to book a day tour to Milford Sound. To be honest, I didn’t really know what Milford Sound was. I think I was confusing it with Mumford & Sons, the music band – that’s why it sounded familiar. Ignorance is bliss, they say, or in my case, sheer stupidity pays off. I was about to have the best day on my trip!

Milford Sound, New Zealand’s famous fiord (with an i, not a j) and Eighth Natural Wonder of the World, only 75km from where I was in Queenstown, yet the tour was going to take 12 hours, including a 2 hour boat cruise in the fjord, err, fiord.

Given my state of ignorant bliss, I had not heard of the Southern Scenic Route nor the fact that to get there, you had to basically go in a circle for over 250 km to get around lakes and mountains. No direct route. So I prepared myself for a long ride, packed a book in case it got boring and set off into the early morning.

Birds singing (sounding very much like birds back home, minus the loud Kookaburra noise), the sun slowly rising behind the mountain range, Queenstown was still sleeping off last night’s party. At 6:45 am sharp, a luxurious coach bus pulled around the corner to pick up our group of 14 random strangers and myself.

Somebody asked me the other day, if I had met a lot of people on my trip. Too old for the backpacker crowd (been there, done that), too young for the grey haired seniors on coach busses, I haven’t really met that many strangers. Other than guys rescuing me in the storm, really, and, well, bus drivers.

Maybe because I’m always sitting right next to them in the front row (best seat in the house, always found the last row on the bus overrated), I got to know quite a few a them. Funny, informative, entertaining, I enjoy their company. That and the beautiful view riding shotgun.

Today’s bus driver was called Jonnie. Jonnie from Auckland. With a brother in the Northern Beaches, Sydney, and sister in Owen Sound, Ontario. Same sound, different place. Maybe he was making that up, but it worked for me.

And while we were making a way out of town along the long shores of Wakatipu Lake, Jonnie told us all about farming in the area (sheep, cattle, deer, and more sheep), about glaciers and fjords ( really Milford should be called Milford Fiord. But then it wouldn’t sound like Mumford & Sons, I guess), about flora and fauna and Trump clumps.

The dark brown grass with an orange tint, originally called red tussock, that was gently swaying in the wind all around us, Jonnie explained, reminded him of Donald Trumps hair. And that he had thought of giving each Trump support a bit of Trump clump, together with a hat saying “Make my hair great again!”.

I could tell, Jonnie had given this a lot of thought – it’s a long drive to Milford Sound.

Green pastures soon gave way to yellow alpine tundra – Eglinton Valley. Once filled with glacier ice, a wide open place with rocks on both sides and a flat, golden tussock floor. We stopped for our first #instamoment, Jonnie offering to take pics and I happily obliged. It’s hard getting pictures of yourself when you are traveling by yourself and are not very good at taking selfies.

We continued along the way, stopped a few times at places like Mirror Lake with its perfect reflection of the mountains, the Disappearing Mountain (very Lord of the Rings Ish), slowly entering the Fiordland National Park.

Trees turning twisty and gnarly, foliage became more and more dense and green and lush, we were now traveling through ancient rainforest territory. 100% humidity, water dripping everywhere, Jonnies windshield wipers going crazy.

And to the sound of swishing and swooshing, he told us about Cheeky Keas (very intelligent parrots with a fetish for rubber) and Dazzled Possums (very dump, pesky animals that threaten New Zealand’s bird population and therefore are being caught in traps all over the area. Their warm fur gets made into possum socks, possum gloves, possum anything).

On the road to our final destination, we encountered Mr Grumpy and Mrs Nice, a flag couple regulating traffic along the way, married for over thirty years (maybe it helps they never see each other, standing at either end of the construction site) and a dickhead (New Zealandish for the idiot, who passed our coach bus in a tight corner).

We reached Homer Tunnel, caught up with dickhead (who received some words of explicit wisdom from Jonnie), slowly crept through the raw, dark passageway through the mountain in front of us, to be greeted by the stunning sight of the downhill sloping, windy road towards Milford Sound. Numerous waterfalls cascading down the granite walls on each side, like veins of life coming down – trickling, gushing to feed into the fiord.

And then, after fours hours of travelling through rich green farmland, dry alpine tundra, and dense wet rainforest, we arrive at Piopiotahi (Little little bird).

Towering peaks, covered by moss and ferns, hiding behind misty clouds, waterfalls plummeting down their sheer sides into the teal cold water of the fiord.

Seals lounging on slippery rocks, seagulls screaming above our heads, water and wind everywhere. There was a speechless silence of wonder and awe on that tiny boat. Feeling small in the face of nature’s beauty – truly one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Back on the bus, Jonnie told us to just sit back and relax, lulling us to sleep with the gentle rocking of the ride.

They say sometimes the journey is the destination. The Southern Scenic Route is great. With sunshine, even better. But with Jonnie behind the wheel, it was the best part of my trip.