Kiwi Tracks Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lonely Planet
the doctor hooks him up to monitors. The jet turbines whine louder, the blades rotate and the helicopter takes off, changing the gentle rhythm of falling snow to a gyrating vortex. Then the hovering ferry helicopter takes the ambulance’s place on the platform. It loads up again and efficiently disappears into the mountains, which are hidden behind layers of congealed precipitation. It reminds me of an efficient military evacuation, some troops heading to the front, while the wounded are taken to the rear. It must be costing DOC a fortune to bail us out this way and yet there is no mention of charging us for the service.
There are only three of us left when the helicopter comes in for the final run. It is 8.30 and getting dark. Patches of fog and black clouds threatening to dump more snow add a foreboding dimension to the evening. We throw the remaining packs into the vibrating cabin and climb in. The pilot throttles up and backs the helicopter off the pad as if reversing a car out of its parking spot. He flicks the tail around with the foot pedals, and with his left hand gripping the collective and right hand pushing on the control stick between his knees, we head straight for the wall of mountains on the opposite side of the valley. Deliberately giving his last three passengers – a relatively light load – a thrill, he makes us wait for the turn. We are almost into the sheer cliffs before he pulls a steep bank. The flesh of my face sags as I sink into my seat with the gravitational force. We aim for the pass and effortlessly skim over it, then the pilot banks hard right, the helicopter almost on one side before he rights it and descends, hugging the mountain. He flies the machine gracefully, as if it were an extension of his own body. In a cul-de-sac of a valley he banks hard left and cruises in
to land, without bothering to hover, outside the guided trampers’ Quintin Hut.
By the time we three stragglers arrive at Dumpling Hut, which is further down the track, it is dark and all our fellow freedom trampers have already turned in. Only Amazon Woman is still up, reliving the day’s experience in a letter to an ex-boyfriend. It stirs her emotions, and bending my ear she tearfully recounts how she quit her job to join her boyfriend, only to discover he was having an affair with someone else. I hadn’t noticed the matching label of LONELY GIRL tattooed on her forehead; amazing how effectively we disguise our afflictions.
Then she asks if I would mind taking a photo of her writing in her diary, several photos in fact, from different angles.
‘Just to be sure,’ she says, as she tidies her hair and poses, still wearing her hot pants.
The final day walking the Milford Track, the sky is reasonably clear for the first time. The clear weather has brought in a plethora of sightseeing tourists in small aircraft. Walking down to Milford Sound I see a line of nine single-engine planes following one another up the valley, an airborne invasion. Having spent the last few years in Norway, it’s a shock to be in similar mountains in New Zealand and experience such an intrusion. That morning I count a total of twenty-seven aircraft passing overhead. With each noisy flight the magic of walking in the primeval forest is diminished.
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MILFORD SOUND
It is almost five in the evening at Milford Sound. The horde of tourists has gone back to Queenstown or Te Anau and sightseeing boats no longer dominate the fiord as they had earlier in the afternoon. The terminal building is empty except for a motley group
waiting for the motor-sailing yacht and the overnight excursion down Milford Sound. Among them I meet a German couple, Gert and Giselle. He is a neurosurgeon; she has a PhD and works at a pharmaceutical company. They are clearly in love, touching each other frequently. It drives me crazy being in the presence of lovers who are so affectionate; sometimes just the holding of hands can seem like an intimate
There are only three of us left when the helicopter comes in for the final run. It is 8.30 and getting dark. Patches of fog and black clouds threatening to dump more snow add a foreboding dimension to the evening. We throw the remaining packs into the vibrating cabin and climb in. The pilot throttles up and backs the helicopter off the pad as if reversing a car out of its parking spot. He flicks the tail around with the foot pedals, and with his left hand gripping the collective and right hand pushing on the control stick between his knees, we head straight for the wall of mountains on the opposite side of the valley. Deliberately giving his last three passengers – a relatively light load – a thrill, he makes us wait for the turn. We are almost into the sheer cliffs before he pulls a steep bank. The flesh of my face sags as I sink into my seat with the gravitational force. We aim for the pass and effortlessly skim over it, then the pilot banks hard right, the helicopter almost on one side before he rights it and descends, hugging the mountain. He flies the machine gracefully, as if it were an extension of his own body. In a cul-de-sac of a valley he banks hard left and cruises in
to land, without bothering to hover, outside the guided trampers’ Quintin Hut.
By the time we three stragglers arrive at Dumpling Hut, which is further down the track, it is dark and all our fellow freedom trampers have already turned in. Only Amazon Woman is still up, reliving the day’s experience in a letter to an ex-boyfriend. It stirs her emotions, and bending my ear she tearfully recounts how she quit her job to join her boyfriend, only to discover he was having an affair with someone else. I hadn’t noticed the matching label of LONELY GIRL tattooed on her forehead; amazing how effectively we disguise our afflictions.
Then she asks if I would mind taking a photo of her writing in her diary, several photos in fact, from different angles.
‘Just to be sure,’ she says, as she tidies her hair and poses, still wearing her hot pants.
The final day walking the Milford Track, the sky is reasonably clear for the first time. The clear weather has brought in a plethora of sightseeing tourists in small aircraft. Walking down to Milford Sound I see a line of nine single-engine planes following one another up the valley, an airborne invasion. Having spent the last few years in Norway, it’s a shock to be in similar mountains in New Zealand and experience such an intrusion. That morning I count a total of twenty-seven aircraft passing overhead. With each noisy flight the magic of walking in the primeval forest is diminished.
Return to beginning of chapter
MILFORD SOUND
It is almost five in the evening at Milford Sound. The horde of tourists has gone back to Queenstown or Te Anau and sightseeing boats no longer dominate the fiord as they had earlier in the afternoon. The terminal building is empty except for a motley group
waiting for the motor-sailing yacht and the overnight excursion down Milford Sound. Among them I meet a German couple, Gert and Giselle. He is a neurosurgeon; she has a PhD and works at a pharmaceutical company. They are clearly in love, touching each other frequently. It drives me crazy being in the presence of lovers who are so affectionate; sometimes just the holding of hands can seem like an intimate
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