In the past few months, I extensively wrote about my peregrinations around the South Island of New Zealand, from beaches to mountaintops. Between November and April, I volunteered, I climbed, I hid, I drove… I had a good time!
I published a great many articles, but they didn’t cover everything: sometimes I didn’t feel like I had enough material to write anything, or I just didn’t feel like it. That said, I still have pictures I’d like to show you, hence this article, dedicated to coastal areas of the island, and its follow up, dedicated to the highlands.
After an exhausting but exhilarating climb to the top of Saint Arnaud Range, I continued north to explore the shore of Tasman Bay and Golden Bay. In the former, I had little interest: too much agriculture, too many people, too little nature, it wasn’t for me! I slept a night in Motueka because I badly needed a shower, then continued on. My first stop was at the Riwaka Resurgence, a lovely dale sacred to the local Maori where a newborn river carved its way through forest and boulders.
As the crow flies, it would have been straight north from Christchurch. However, Maui’s canoe wasn’t flat, and the Southern Alps run from one end of the South Island to the other. After I left the cultivated plains, I was taken left and right, east and west, up the passes and down the valleys, sometimes accross the forest, sometimes accross meadows, in the shadows of high peaks dusted by snow. It was the end of summer.
Christchurch is the largest city on the South Island of New Zealand, and it’s there that I took my flight to India in the end of last year. I came back early in January, and spent some time in the region before heading to Arthur’s Pass. I spent a day on the Banks Peninsula (more about that in a future article), then hit the shore of Lake Ellesmere.
This lake, the 5th largest of New Zealand, is in fact a brackish lagoon, sometimes linked to the Pacific Ocean when the channel is open, sometimes not. It’s an important site for wildlife, despite high pollution levels from agriculture runoff.
I explored a bit the south-western end of the lake, but couldn’t find a favourable spot for photography. I had time before sunset (remember, January equals summer and long, warm days :p), so I tried my luck at the Selwyn River estuary. At the end of an unpleasant gravel road, there was a small settlement and a car park. From the car park, a path led to the edge of the lake. A careless dog owner gave me a fright, but, apart from that, there were not many visitors in that area.
The path was lined by dense hedges of New Zealand flax and other bushes that attracted countless songbirds, mainly Silvereyes (Zosterops lateralis) and introduced species.
Silvereye (Zosterops lateralis)
After the Divide, the road turns left, gets narrow and goes down in a steep ramp that ends at the bottom of the Hollyford Valley. Long ago, glaciers carved this place from the rock, leaving behind vertical walls that form a corridor for the intrepid visitor to follow.
To the right starts the Hollyford Track, a dirt road that follows the Lower Hollyford River for a while. Right at the start, a path leads up through the forest to Lake Marian. In April, I wanted to climb to Key Summit, but the walk, which starts at the Divide, was impossible because a bridge was damaged. So I chose Lake Marian, a 3-hour hike as well.
I started early, and it was freaking cold. I kept a swift pace on my ascent, so quickly, I was boiling. I didn’t slow down, and arrived to the lake faster than expected. The sun was lighting the east-facing slopes while frost still covered vegetation on the banks. The reflection was superb, but as the air warmed, a slight breeze broke it. I waited for the sun to reach me, then started to make my way down to the car.
Fjordland National Park, in the south-west corner of New Zealand, is one of the wildest places in the country. In the valleys, lush native forests dwell below indomitable cliffs from which waterfalls cascade on rainy days, and at the top, snow covers alpine heaths and rocky peaks until late in the season.
Most of it is unaccessible to the average traveler. However, one road will take you from Te Anau to the sea, passing along majestic sceneries that will stay stuck in your mind for a while: the road to Milford Sound. Landscapes are stunning but wildlife is exciting as well: most of the region has escaped logging, and with great efforts made to control mammals, many birds are now thriving there.
As some of you know, I spent the months of February and March in Dunedin, in southern New Zealand. It was summer, this lovely city was sunny and rather warm… but that’s not what pushed me to stay there.
You see, in November, on my way south to Invercargill and the Subantarctic Islands, I had stopped in Dunedin to talk with Karen, the ranger responsible for the volunteering program at Sandfly Bay. She had told me about the Yellow-eyed penguins (Megadyptes antipodes) that nest in the dunes there, and about the visitors that need to be kept at bay for the birds to thrive… they needed people to set up signs and talk to visitors, to educate them to the threats those cute birds face in the world today.
Up to 65cm tall, endemic to New Zealand (southern South Island, Auckland Islands and Campbell Island), the fourth largest penguin in the world is also one of the most threatened, and it’s classified as Endangered by the IUCN. Its population has dwindled by 50-80% in the past 21 years, has become extremely fragmented in the process, and has shown dramatic fluctuations from year to year.
Yellow-eyed penguin (Megadyptes antipodes), seen here in the Subantarctic Islands
Gulls are fascinating creatures, yet they are often disliked by people: “they are noisy”, “they poo everywhere”, “they are aggressive”… These people forget that we are the invaders, and that gulls, like all wildlife, are just trying to adapt to the changes we bring to the natural world. At that, they have proved expert, thriving on our waste. Ask a larophile (a fan of gulls; from Laridae, the latin name of the gull family) the best place for gull-watching, and the answer will most likely be the local landfill! A geo-tracking study showed that gulls nesting in Belgium were doing regular trip to a certain place in France… that proved to be a chips factory! Oh, and haven’t you seen this picture of a gull that fell into a tikka masala vat in the UK, turning completely orange in its quest for food scraps? In Helsinki, it’s a lot of fun to watch gulls diving on people’s ice creams at the market square (Kauppatori). They make the scoops fall to the ground, for they know humans won’t pick them up from there. Then the feast begins. Unfortunately, in a natural world unbalanced by human activity, gulls can also be a nuisance for more sensitive species, eating eggs and chicks.
Herring gull (Larus argentatus) on the ferry to Texel (NL)
You’d think that most storms hitting New Zealand come from the vast Pacific Ocean, but down here, the ocean is quite pacific indeed, and bad weather essentially comes from the Tasman Sea, which separates the country from Australia.
Furthermore, because the South Island sits on a fault born of the encounter of the Indo-Australian and the Pacific tectonic plates, it is quite mountainous: the Southern Alps dominate it from north to south, from Marlborough to Fjordland. This natural barrier, which culminates at 3724 meters at Mount Cook, blocks the clouds and pushes them to release their water. Thus, Westland, the region on the west coast of the South Island, is a rather humid place. In the mountains near Hokitika, 20 kilometers from the coast, fall 14 meters of rain a year. Maybe they should rename it Wetland.