Milford and Doubtful: Two Great Sounds that Sound Great Together

​The route into Te Anau was pleasant. Dense clusters of red tussock adorned the hillsides. We passed through Mossburn, the “deer capital” of New Zealand, and a handful of deer farms. We braced ourselves for a humble AirBNB, as the photos on the listing were meager, but it turned out to be a cozy and spacious 2-bedroom apartment. The living room had a bookshelf with a few classic titles and hutch with a set of eclectic glassware and a CD player. The faucets were awkwardly close to the edge of the sink; after several weeks of dealing with quirky kitchens and bathrooms, this was not worth fussing over.

​We picked up fresh groceries at the local Countdown, which had a large selection of camping food near the entrance, hinting at the hiking-oriented clientele. While in the store, the elusive Mark snuck up and found us! Mark was on a solo trip to New Zealand, and we’d been texting for a few days to find the overlap in our itineraries, which ended up being in Te Anau. He had reached the town using a very different route: hiking the Routeburn Track over the mountains from Queenstown, and then catching a one-way ride from a tour bus.

Mark joined us for a simple pasta dinner at our place, and we spent the evening swapping stories from New Zealand and beyond. Between the four of us, there was a lot of travel experience at that dining room table. Amazingly, I’d seen Mark in 3 different countries in the past 2 months – Croatia, the US, and now New Zealand – all somewhat coincidental. But in every case, the overlap was brief. The next day, he successfully hitchhiked to Dunedin.

​Our day tour to the Milford Sound was everything we could have possibly hoped for, and then more. Our guide was an upbeat, hilarious local guy named Jeff who narrated almost the entire drive while handling the roads with ease. It was a small van with ~10 people and we managed to stay ahead of the hordes of Queenstown tour buses (a recurring punching bag in Jeff’s comedy). Jeff also had the best NZ accent. For example, “Kepler Trail” sounded more like “Keepler Tryal” and “Te Anau” became one word, “Tee-annu”.

​The drive to Milford Sound is known for being incredibly scenic, and it traversed 3 contrasting valleys. The first valley was flat and devoid of trees, as the cold temperatures inhibited plant growth on the valley floor. A massive scar on the mountainside was the result of a “tree avalanche,” when the a falling tree and its interconnected roots brought a whole strip of trees down with it. 

​The second valley was steep and rocky; here we found a group of kea, the endangered mountain parrots that I was hoping to see. They had a plush coat of earthy green feathers, with orange under the wings when they took flight. Known for being intelligent but mischievous, the kea hopped on the tops of cars and waddled across the pavement looking for trouble (a group of kea is called a “circus”). You had to be careful not to turn your back on one, as they seized every opportunity to peek inside your vehicle or lunchbag.

​A long, downhill tunnel led to the third valley, flanked by majestic granite walls and leading towards Milford Sound. It had the grandeur of Yosemite’s sheer faces combined with the jagged peaks and snowcaps of Patagonia. We reached the harbor, and Jeff gave us the passes for our ferry cruise. We boarded under the supervision of the towering Mitre Peak. The cruise ran the length of the sound, turning around at the edge of the Tasman Sea. We learned that the descriptor “sound” is technically a misnomer, as it was carved by glaciers rather than a river, making it a fjord. We watched the parade of mountain peaks from all sides of the boat – there was not a bad seat in the house. The mountains were incredibly tall, yet their sharp angles were softened by the lush greenery, the tufty clouds, the snowcaps, and the waterfalls. A single penguin and a few fur seals were spotted, but the landscape was the real star of the show. At one point, the boat edged towards the base of a waterfall, thoroughly splashing the brave passengers on the exterior deck. Overall, Milford Sound definitely merited its reputation as a premiere fjord experience. 

​As an added bonus, our guide offered the chance to sign up for a scenic helicopter ride. Rachel had been thinking about doing a helicopter tour earlier in the trip, but the idea was nixed by the poor weather in Franz Josef. Now, on this beautiful day in Milford Sound, she jumped on the opportunity. Vincent and I watched the helicopter takeoff from the small airport. Rachel had a front row seat on the journey to the tallest mountain peak, where the helicopter parked and the passengers enjoyed time in the snow. It sounded like an unforgettable experience. (In the meantime, Jeff took us landlubbers for a short walk.) We all agreed the unexpected helicopter flight was the cherry on top to a perfect day.

​The van ride back was more leisurely, now that we’d completed all of our side quests. We stopped for photos at a scenic bridge, skipped rocks at a pretty lake, and watched more of the kea shenanigans. Back in town, Te Anau was bustling as it was the eve of its annual running race on the Kepler Track, a 60 km route that normally takes several days to walk. We settled into the apartment and had a tasty meal of coconut curry soup with tofu and vermicelli.

Our next day was yet another sound – the ominously named Doubtful Sound. It earned this name when Captain Cook looked into its entrance from the Tasman Sea, studied the wind patterns, and decided it was “doubtful” they could get back out. It was much harder to reach than the Milford Sound, and in hindsight, quite surprising that a large, guided tour would venture that deep into the wilderness.
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The first leg of the journey crossed Lake Manapouri on an hour-long boat ride. We sat on the upper floor right behind the captain. The day was gray and cloudy, but the hills and mountains on the edges of the lake were still visible. Four jittery windshield wipers kept the captain’s view clear, while the passenger windows slowly were obscured with droplets.

​On the far side of the lake was a hydroelectric power plant that was a bit hard to fathom. The water from Lake Manapouri goes down a hidden manmade waterfall, generating power, and then is piped for 10 kilometers underground, eventually exiting into the Doubtful Sound. The gravel road from the Doubtful Sound to Lake Manapouri (that we were about to follow) was built so that heavy machinery could be brought in from ocean barges and is one of the most expensive roads in New Zealand.

A fleet of three tour buses absorbed the boat passengers and set forth on this unlikely road, the second leg of the journey. The inside of the bus window was swarming with sandflies. I squashed a good number, until one turned out to be full of blood, at which point I stopped. The bus driver had a good sense of humor and provided light commentary. He pointed out a road sign that read “trucks use low gear” but with a handmade addition, “buses can freewheel.”

Though the clouds persisted, the view from the mountain pass was clear enough to see the Doubtful Sound from above. It was moody and mysterious, even despite the commotion of tourists in brightly colored rain jackets jockeying for photos. On the descent from the pass, we saw pockets of debris in the shoulder, the remnants of severe flooding that had washed out the road. We passed a youth outdoor retreat that had just been shuttered a few months earlier due to these precarious conditions. It still had several signs to watch out for children playing, an eerie ghost town in this inhospitable place.

​Our boat cruised along the Doubtful Sound for around 3 hours, skirting different islands and exploring the sound’s various arms. The scenery was more homogenous than Milford, in part because of the cloud cover. These clouds were poised in the mountaintops, as if the scenery was allowing itself to be seen, but this privilege could be revoked at any moment. The fjord was also enormous. It made you feel small. There were practically no other boats, furthering the sense of isolation.

​The wind and rain picked up, and most folks returned to the cabin. I stayed on the bow for a few extra minutes in my waterproof gear and had some time with just me and the fjord. It was hard to grapple with how such a physically large space could be so untouched, especially since it was just one of 14 fjords in the region. If Milford was a destination, Doubtful was an experience.

Along the cruise, we saw a few seals and penguins, plus some waterfalls and lots of lush ferns. The only sign of civilization was an unlikely fishing hut, permitted to exist because it was built between the low and high tide lines, a clever loophole in the zoning laws. At one point, the boat stopped and turned off the engine, so everyone could enjoy a moment of quiet. It was silent except for the lapping of the water against the shore and the sound of the raindrops on the sound.

The return journey went by quickly, crossing the mountains by bus and crossing the lake back to the visitor center. We drove back into Te Anau and had comforting chili and cornbread for dinner. There were no measuring cups, so I used the gradations on Vincent’s Nalgene bottle to portion out the bread ingredients. Then, the powerful oven burned the loaf on all sides. But once the crispy parts were skimmed off, the bread tasted fine – another victory of travel cooking.

I’m glad we experienced the Doubtful Sound. The tour group was much larger than I expected, but it didn’t detract – there was plenty of nature for everyone.

On our final morning in Te Anau, we browsed souvenir shops in town and checked out a free bird sanctuary. The sanctuary’s main draw was the endangered takahe, the flightless blue feathered bird thought to be extinct until it was rediscovered hiding in the Fjordlands. They also had a few kakariki, the green parakeet, and blue ducks (which were mostly black). On the road out of town, we passed the familiar fields of red tussock and deer, and headed south towards Bluff and Stewart Island.