The Last Adventurer

Despite our constant gawking at the amazing natural beauty, it was hard not to notice that we were burning up the trail. It was obvious because each mile was conspicuously marked with a green post. The trail was also perfectly flat and level, winding through the green carpeted expanse. The clear silence of the forest was intermittently chopped by the slight bends in the trail that exposed distant snow capped monoliths and the brilliant refracted blue and green of the Clinton River.

As we were beginning to break a slight sweat, we were at mile three. As we only had to go five kilometers – or three point three miles, we knew that we were very close to our first hut. It was therefore an easy decision to make our first side trip. We headed off into the “Wetland”, a raised walk through a bog, which eventually led to a clearing with spectacular views of the surrounding peaks.

It was a mere ten minute walk after the wetland to our first night’s accommodation, Clinton Hut. Clinton, like all of the huts on the Milford Track, has a permanent DOC host. Clinton actually is four buildings – two bunkrooms, one communal eating area, and a restroom. The bunkrooms are lined with standard if not slightly short bunk beds, with mattresses that get aired and cleaned regularly. For someone like me, used to tenting, or sleeping in a bivy sack, it was borderline luxury.

We were also lucky in that we had only fifteen people in our group, which allowed us to spread out among the forty spaces that are available. However, it is no stretch of the imagination to see that the hut would seem a little cramped and noisy with a full complement of forty people. The kitchen came fully stocked with running water and propane stoves, which meant that the stove and gas canisters I was carrying were completely superfluous, except for emergencies.

The only drawback to Clinton Hut was the hordes of sandflies, who lurked everywhere, and whose corpses littered every window and windowsill in the compound. Until the Abel Tasman coast track, I was blissfully unaware of the species. My legs and feet quickly made the acquaintance of sandflies while walking the golden sands of Abel Tasman. My feet, legs, and the rest of my body quickly learned that a sandfly is a gnat-sized insect that travels in the company of several hundred of its closest friends, looking for anything to bite.

Unlike mosquitoes, sandflies do not buzz. Like mosquitoes, sandflies prefer warm blood, and are not particular about which part of your body they acquire their meal from. The sandfly is a sneaky insect. Since they make no perceptible sound, I found it hard to tell when I was being bit, except when the damage had already been done. Once bit, it was really too late to do anything but scratch. To me, the bites were itchy enough to be one of the torments of a minor level of hell. Moreover, I found that the bites lingered whether they were scratched or not.

At Clinton, refuge from the biting demi-demons was easy: we hid out in the kitchen, met our fellow backpackers, and played several games of gin until the sun set and the mercury on the thermometer dropped. When darkness fell, I zipped outside quickly to marvel at the tapestry of unknown stars. After a few minutes of staring at well-traveled light, I headed back in to rest for the next stage of the journey.