Onwards to Puerto Rico

Ponce, Puerto Rico

By: Kerry

Fantazia Caribbean-9079With Mick and Garth’s departure, it left sailing the 300-odd miles to the east coast of Puerto Rico to John, Damian and me. Not a distance you’d normally be concerned about, but once again, we were beating against the trades and negotiating the bottom end of the notorious Mona Passage between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico.

Frank had given us a fine-tuning on the katabatic theory: if the trades don’t get above 15 knots during the day, he reckons, the katabatics will kick in. Any more than 15 knots, they won’t and you should stay put.

So we ate the elephant in small chunks: a 60 mile hop to anchor off Saona Island for a nap, then a night-time departure to make the crossing to Boqueron on the west coast of PR.

The trades had been up almost to 20 knots during the day, but we went anyway. The katabatics didn’t exactly kick in, but at least the headwinds were lighter and it ended up being a reasonable crossing.

Boqueron had little to recommend it, and Mayaguez, where we had to go to clear Customs the following day, didn’t inspire either, so we left at 0500 (hoping that the katabatics might ease our way early in the day) and motored 45 miles around the corner and along the south coast to Ponce, arriving in time for the annual mahi mahi fishing competition, the biggest weekend of the year at the Ponce yacht club. The docks were bristling with rods and tuna towers atop 30 or so sports fishing boats.

We arrived in time for the fish weigh-in and the start of the music… Loud, but nothing on the DR!

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A Short Stay in Santo Domingo

Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

By: Kerry

Alcazar de ColonMick and Garth are scheduled to fly out of San Juan in Puerto Rico on April 9, so they’ve decided to jump ship here, where we’re close to the airport, and connect through to PR.

It’s the end of the line for them and we all felt in need of a ‘holiday’, so we booked rooms in a lovely hotel (Boutique Hotel Palacio) in a refurbished colonial building in the Zona Colonial of DR’s capital city, Santo Domingo.

Santo Domingo is the oldest city in the New World, and claims to have the first street, cathedral, university and hospital in the Americas, dating back to the early 16th century.

The Zona Colonial – the old town – has been declared a World Heritage Site and has been meticulously restored: there are impressive churches and official buildings, and cobblestone streets lined with beautiful stone houses that showed architectural links to all the great cities of Latin America. It’s lovely.

We spent a day or so just wandering around the streets – we weren’t really in the mood for museums and such, but happily just snapped photos. Lots of photos.

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Easter in Boca Chica

Boca Chica, Dominican Republic

By: Kerry

Fantazia Caribbean1-8860So we arrived in Boca Chica a bit battered and tired. We were met by Rigo, the dock master at Marina Zar Par, who (of course) had a brother who moonlighted as a taxi driver and it wasn’t long before Eddy the taxi driver had us seated in his favourite Italian restaurant in Boca Chica.

Boca Chica is a tourist town by DR standards. The beachfront is lined with bars and the street running behind it is lined with souvenir shops (as well as more than its fair share of massage parlours). At night, the street is closed and a long row of restaurants sets up tables on the roadway.

The Cruising Guide mentions in passing that BC is “VERY WELL KNOWN for the availability of the opposite sex if you want to party. Be careful!”

Throughout dinner, diners and hookers strolled down the middle of the road between the tightly packed tables, the hookers casually dragging their fingertips across our boys’ shoulders and winking lasciviously at me, the girl with four blokes.

Daylight was a wholly different scene – at least on Easter Sunday. The beach, such as it is, is sheltered by an island and natural reef that form a large lagoon: the marina and port fit inside it, and dozens of pimped up cabin cruisers with monster outboards anchor off, where the adults stand waist deep in the water and use the boats’ swim platforms as wet bars. (An excellent, but under-utilised approach in Australia!).

The narrow beach was crammed with families soaking in the sea or sitting in the shade of the palm trees, eating and shouting over the music. A constant stream of hawkers plied the strip selling a strange assortment of goods, from trays of toffee cherries that looked like miniature toffee apples, to carved wooden tea sets…What the ??

We spent the afternoon sitting in a shady bar watching proceedings and soaking up rum punches. Everyone was in a holiday mood, which meant they were even more social than usual – we’ve found people to be very friendly and inclusive – and being able to speak and have a bit of a joke in Spanish makes a big difference.

Easter, or Semana Santa (literally, Saints’ Week) is the biggest holiday of the year here and the revellers were still making the most of it as we walked home along the beach.

And the music played LOUD well into the night.

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Blow it out your …

Boca Chica, Dominican Republic

By: Kerry

The katabatic wind theory of night sailing is, as far as we’re concerned, a load of bollocks.

In the months leading up to this trip, Woody has researched the different route options between Florida and the Caribbean, a voyage generally known as ‘The Thorny Path to Windward’.

One route has you heading ‘east until the butter melts and then turning south’. The most popular cruising guide, A Gentleman’s Guide to Passages South by the very dapper-looking Bruce van Sant, describes a route that goes along the north side of the Dominican Republic and down through the Mona Passage between the DR and Puerto Rico, which sounds possibly worse than the Windward Passage.

For better or worse, Woody chose the path extolled by an American called Frank Virgintino in his Free Cruising Guide to the Dominican Republic, which tracks, as we have, down the Windward Passage and along the south coast of the Dominican Republic.

Frank poses the credible theory that the on-shore anabatic and trade winds of daytime are mitigated at night by the opposing off-shore katabatic winds generated by the temperature differential between the cooling land and the comparatively warmer sea.

So by travelling at night, you take advantage of lighter winds from a friendlier angle.

Makes sense. But we haven’t found it to actually happen…

So we had another shitty night and day (16 hours to do 100 miles) of windward motoring to reach Boca Chica, where we actually met Frank of the Free Cruising Guide. Turns out that Frank has an interest in the Boca Chica marina…

Nice man, very helpful in putting us in touch with marina contacts in Puerto Rico. Swears by the theory based on 28 years of cruising.

Maybe we’ve just been short on luck or patience…

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A Few Days in the DR

Boca Chica, Dominican Republic By: Kerry

Da Boyz: Mick, Garth, Damian

Da Boyz: Mick, Garth, Damian

The Dominican Republic is LOUD. Salsa, merengue, bachata and reggaeton blast you sideways all day long. Every shop, bar, car – wherever two or more people gather – the music is dialled to ear-splitting.

On our first afternoon in Barahona, we came face to ear with this local phenomenon, and also with Iban: the quintessential fixer. In a country where the average monthly wage is $400, nearly everyone is moonlighting at something, and propinas, or tips, are an integral part of business.

Iban is second-in-charge of Immigration at Barahona, but with only around three boats a week dropping by, he has time on his very enterprising and well-connected hands. With Customs and Immigration cleared (expedited by Iban), he whisked Garth and me into town in his beaten-up Toyota, took us to the ATM, negotiated on our behalf to buy a local SIM card and drove us around trying to find ice, which was in short supply. We eventually found it at a bar of er, questionable repute where the music was a solid wall of noise, negating the need for the patrons to talk to one another.

He didn’t ask us for money for helping us, but graciously accepted a propina when Garth offered it.

Iban doesn’t speak English – few people in the DR do – but he speaks Spanish clearly and slowly enough that I can understand him. (I am suddenly official Fantazia translator and trying to dredge Spanish out of the dim recesses of my brain). We were interested in doing an excursion to Lago Enriquillo – a sub-sea-level lake with crocodiles and iguanas – a few hours’ drive away.

Of course! Iban would take us on a full-day excursion, incorporating the hot springs and ‘Indian carvings’. He would drive us in his Toyota.

The Toyota didn’t look like it was up to a 300km round trip with five big men and me in it, and our crew definitely weren’t up to a full day crammed in like sardines.

No problem. Iban had a friend with a mini-van. But it would cost an extra $50… He also arranged for a colleague from the Immigration Dept to mind the boat for the day – for a small propina.

We were off at 7.00 next morning but, after a fuel stop (“can you please give the driver some money so he can pay for the petrol?”), we blew a tire. It was early, but not too early to break out a beer…

We drove through nondescript, scrubby hills and small towns of ramshackle weatherboard buildings in faded shades of gelato. Most of the vehicles on the road were pretty dilapidated, too, and motorcycles carried improbable loads, including 40kg gas cylinders almost two metres long, held athwart the pillion seat by the driver.

We stopped for fried chicken and to resupply the esky (600ml bottles of Presidente beer for a buck) as everyone – especially, it seemed, Iban and the driver – was thirsty in the heat.

A young guy was doing blockies: the front passenger seat of his clapped out ute was totally taken over by a massive speaker and the bass decibels were shaking up the dust all over town.

Even louder was the flat-bed truckload of speakers blaring at the natural spring baths. Family groups, teenagers and groups of gangsta-imitating youths splashed in the pools and shouted at one another to be heard over the Latin beats. Large people ate large plates of rice and beans and fried chicken.

It seems no-one in this country, no matter their size or shape, is afraid of lycra: a couple of sizes too small is good, fluoro is de rigueur.

We eventually pulled in to the lakeside car park, which had been taken over by lizards. A gang of metre-long Rhinoceros-horned iguanas stared us down, their chins jutting and their front elbows turned out in apparent indignation. They were happy to pose for photos, but I thought they looked a bit disappointed not to be given a propina.

In a case of ‘it’s not the destination, it’s the journey’, the lake itself was underwhelming. The waters have been inexplicably rising for the past few years, which is forcing the relocation of shore-side settlements and accounts for the dead trees protruding from the water.

The boat to the island in the lake where the crocodiles reside wasn’t operating, but we weren’t that fussed: we have them bigger and better back home!

We stopped briefly to climb some slippery stairs to see some ‘Indian rock petroglyphs’ that looked remarkably like recently-etched smiley faces, but didn’t linger as the sun’s heat on the top of our heads was so intense it hurt.

By then, everyone was feeling a little drowsy after beers and heat, so it was a fairly quiet trip around the remaining perimeter of the lake and back to Barahona.

The following day was Good Friday. So we were told, it’s supposed to be a day for reflection and respect. Most notably, you’re supposed to turn your music down and play ‘classical’ instead of raunchy Latino. Mostly, this held true: we wandered the deserted centre and backstreets of town, which looked like a movie set, with all the weather-beaten weatherboard houses (very Boo Radley).

The streets were pleasantly devoid of litter which added to the movie set feel, in stark contrast to the ‘beach’ where hordes of picnickers were congregating to eat rice and beans and fried chicken, drink beer and listen to loud music (just for a change).

The pebble beach looked like it was strewn with confetti: in fact it was tiny shards of multi-coloured plastic flotsam washed ashore.

Everyone was strutting their lycra-clad booty and having a fat old time. We hung around for a bit, briefly watched the girls’ boxing (!) and then it was time to check out: by law, we have to obtain a ‘Dispacho’ from Customs each time we leave one port for another in the DR.

Cruiser lore has it that the katabatic winds coming down from the mountains at night override the trade winds, making for a more comfortable trip. So we’re testing the theory and leaving tonight to do the passage to Boca Chica overnight. Trouble is, we aren’t supposed to leave port after 6.00pm.

We found Iban lounging in the shade under a tree. He’d ‘fixed’ it with Customs to allow us to leave any time we liked. There was a minor hitch when I came up against the Jefe – the Chief of Customs – who wasn’t aware of the ‘arrangement’. But a small propina soon sorted things out.

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The Windward Passage

Barahona, Dominican Republic

By: Kerry

This famously cantankerous, 80km-wide strait separates Cuba from Haiti (east-west), and the Atlantic Ocean from the Caribbean Sea (north-south). The prevailing easterly trade winds, blowing in straight off the Atlantic, can kick up big swells and make for a very uncomfortable voyage.

As it turned out, on our first day we raised sails and actually turned the engines off. But it wasn’t long before it got windy and lumpy and we were back to motoring into headwinds. The first night was the worst: on Damian and my watch we were battering into 25-28 knots, rough seas and waves hitting the stern were splashing us at the helm station amidships.

The two nights, three days and 567 nautical miles of the trip are a bit of a blur: it was rough and windy. Enough said. We aimed to stay in international waters in the middle of the strait – to starboard lay Cuba (we passed close to Guantanamo Bay) and to port lay Haiti (cruiser scuttlebutt mutters about pirates and recent assaults on yachties).

We had a brief respite from the wind one hot midday, when we found ourselves in a field of fish traps – plastic water bottle buoys all over the place – tended by lone fishermen in tiny wooden skiffs powered by huge amounts of sail area relative to their size: they reminded me of the old 18-foot skiffs that sail on Sydney Harbour.

The contrast between the skiffs and the multi-million dollar gin palaces we’d been surrounded by a week previously; between the one of the world’s richest nations and one of its poorest, couldn’t have been more extreme.

Haiti’s western coastline is shaped like a huge fish tail: we rounded its southern point and motored straight into the teeth of the trade winds along the coast of Haiti until we crossed the border into the Dominican Republic and dropped anchor off the beach at the first available port of entry, Isla Beata.

Fantazia Caribbean-8657

Isla Beata, Dominican Republic

Fantazia Caribbean-8655

Customs commandeered a local fishing boat to come and clear us in.

Next day saw the worst leg of the trip so far: it took us 10 hours to cover 56 miles to Barahona on the coast of the Dominican Republic ‘mainland’, with strong headwinds and a nasty chop that kept thumping up under the bridge deck hard enough to make your teeth rattle.

Just on 1000 miles since Florida…

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Exploring the Exumas … Albeit Briefly.

Cape Santa Maria, Long Island, Exumas

By: Kerry

Fantazia Caribbean-8537We motored across dead calm water to the south-west side of Highbourne Cay – which lies about half-way down the 140 nautical mile chain of low, sandy islands making up the Exuma Cays – and anchored off a brilliantly white beach in just a couple of metres of swimming-pool-blue water: the colour and clarity is incredible.

The island is privately owned, but we were able to go in to the small marina – full of game fishing and charter boats – and fuel up. It reminded me of the BVIs: neat, clean and thoroughly sign-posted, with a small general store selling souvenirs and exorbitantly priced groceries.

Garth and I took the dinghy and circumnavigated the island, which is about three miles long. We stopped for a snorkel on the windward side at a spot recommended by the local dive operation. There were a few small but pretty fan corals and a few colourful fish, but nothing compared to what we’re used to in the Pacific.

We continued past the long white East beach (“world-renowned as one of the best beaches in the Bahamas”) that stretches the full east coast of the island, back to the marina, where a bunch of fat and happy nurse sharks were sunning themselves beneath the fish cleaning station, obviously waiting for an easy afternoon tea. They took no notice of us as we floated a metre above them in the dinghy – very tempted to jump in with them…

John had us up early the next day, headed for Warderick Wells, headquarters of the Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park. The cay shelters a sinuous channel flanked by sandbanks that dry at low tide to glaring white, sliding into a stunning wash of blues from palest pool to richest royal.

Established in 1958, the ECLSP extends for 22 miles from Wax Cay Cut in the north to Conch Cut in the south and about four nautical miles on either side of the cays.

I wanted to do some snorkelling, but the boys weren’t up for it after we were visited by a bunch of lazy nurse sharks who hung out around Fantazia’s transom, looking for a feed.

On Cherry, the Park Ranger’s recommendation, at slack tide (the current is too strong at any other time), I snorkelled on a coral garden in the channel. About the same area as Fantazia’s deck, the garden’s coral life was fairly limited but, hidden amongst it I saw a huge lobster; the biggest pair of angelfish I’ve ever seen; a lion fish; schools of blue tang and snapper and a grouper lurking beneath a ledge. It’s the greatest concentration of life I’ve seen so far: elsewhere the sea bottom has been bare sand – beautiful, but barren.

We also walked to the top of the ‘famous’ Booboo Hill, where yachties have been piling up planks of driftwood and palings adorned with their boat names for, it would appear, decades.

With the calendar and a possible change in the weather starting to work against us, we were off next morning to Staniel Cay, the cruising hub of the Exumas. Initially, we were going to go into the Staniel Cay Marina, but our ‘berth’ turned out to be un-negotiable, thanks in part to a stiff breeze and a four-knot current blasting past the pilings, so we anchored off instead.

It would have been nice to spend a day or so looking around (I really wanted to meet the famous swimming pigs) but, as it was, we had a quick wander, picked up a few supplies from the pink market and the blue market and had time to sample a few rather wicked rum punches in the bar by the dock…

And then we were off again, heading out through Galliot Cut into the Exuma Sound, and open Atlantic Ocean for the run down the back side of the Cays, re-entering via Conch Cay Cut to Elizabeth Harbour, between Stocking Island and Great Exuma Island.

Sand Dollar Beach on Stocking Island was crowded with a couple of hundred cruising yachts – by far the most we’ve seen so far – apparently many spend the whole winter here, and there’s a beach bar; a shack selling conch fritters; volleyball nets and the familiar totem pole of sign posts to visitors’ home ports.

Across the harbour, George Town is ostensibly the ‘capital’ of the Exumas. It’s charming in a sprawling, dusty, colourful Caribbean way: pretty much everything is arranged around Lake Victoria – a circular inlet accessed by dinghy through a narrow cut from Elizabeth harbour. Backing on to the Lake is Exuma Markets – the first supermarket we’ve found since Florida, with pretty much anything you’d want.

There’s also a straw market where a bunch of languid local women make and sell baskets, shell jewellery and t-shirts; an impressive, peach-painted Georgian-style administration building; a few cafes; and a bunch of dread-locked locals sitting on a wall in the main street, doing nothing much.

We had to pick our way pretty carefully between the reefs to get out into open water, and actually got a sail up for a change, and had a nice sail to Cape Santa Maria on Long Island: our launch pad for the Windward Passage.

370 nautical miles since Florida…

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Bahamas Bound

Exumas, Bahamas

By: Kerry

Fantazia Caribbean1-8427We’re sailing through the Bahamas – actually the Exumas, the chain of little island jewels to the east of Nassau, to be precise – on a clear-sky, no-wind day, eating freshly barbecued crayfish and swigging chilled pinot grigio. And it’s only our second day out.

Fantazia, the boat we’re on, is a 55-foot catamaran, similar to ours, owned by our friend John Woodruff. He’s shipped it (yes, put his boat on a ship) from Brisbane to Fort Lauderdale as the starting point for an adventure that will see him sail from the east coast of the US, through the Caribbean and Panama into the Pacific and, eventually, back to Australia. He’s very kindly asked us (Damian, me, Garth and Mick) along for the first stage of the trip, to help him sail the boat from Fort Lauderdale, Florida to Antigua in the Caribbean.

The transporter ship arrived loaded with a dozen or so boats, ranging from smaller cruising yachts up to 60-metre super yachts. It’s remarkable in that all the ‘cargo’ boards the ship on its own bottom: the entire ship sinks to a depth of five metres; the cargo deck floods and all the boats motor on board, where steel supports are individually welded in place by a team of divers. The ship then re-surfaces, the cargo is raised high and dry, and off it goes.

We (very gladly) left Fort Lauderdale after 10 days of humidity, ferocious no-see-ums (sand flies) and a false start thanks to fuel filter issues, that saw us return to port for an extra night.

Problems fixed, we headed out of the Intracoastal canal system and turned south – passing the towering high-rises along the Miami beaches – hugging the coast to stay inside the four-knot south-north Gulf Stream current, which will push us northward 2.5 miles for every hour we’re at sea. Then we headed east, motoring hard across the current as it took us easterly on a diagonal track towards the Bahamas.

This 130nm passage to the clearance port of Chub Cay can be pretty unpleasant if the wind decides to contradict the tide and current.

A local cruising guidebook describes the Gulf Stream off Florida as “…a 45-mile wide river, more powerful than you can imagine. You can’t see the speed of its wash like standing on a river bank, but it is there, flowing northward at an average speed of 2.5 knots, day and night, in every season.”

When you get a ‘norther’ blowing, the sea horizon is often ‘jagged and saw-toothed’. “That,” says the guide, “Is when there are ‘elephants’ out there; giant square waves…kicked up by the Stream’s determination to win its way north against the wind, come what may.”

After all the holdups, we managed to sync our passage with a forecast for calm seas and light winds. We motored into a soft evening and a clear warm night: we’re back in the tropics!

We crossed onto the Great Bahama Bank – the broad, shallow plateau that backs the leeward side of the islands of the Bahamas and the depth went from 300 metres to three. At around 2:00 am we stopped and dropped anchor – not in a safe harbour, but in the middle of nowhere…

I woke to a silent, beautiful dawn: swirls of watercolour clouds reflected in a seamless bubble encompassing horizon-less ocean in every direction. It was the weirdest feeling: I’ve spent many days surrounded by 360 degrees of sea, but I’d never anchored in the middle of the ocean before – nor anchored in three metres of water out of sight of land.

As the sun rose, we weighed anchor and motored for Chub Cay, docking in the small marina by mid-afternoon.

Chub Cay typifies the boom and bust history of the Bahamas: a dozen gelato-coloured, Hamptons-style, two-storey condos with massive, twin air conditioning compressors plumbed in like artificial lungs, stand empty. A white wedding cake of a building that at first glance looked complete, but on closer inspection had electrical wires hanging out of the walls, also appeared abandoned. The place felt dead: flattened and bleached by the relentless, breathless heat.

John went to the airport to clear Customs, while the rest of us went to the perfectly clean, wet-edge pool attached to the abandoned wedding cake and spent the rest of the afternoon chilling.

We went for dinner at the Marina restaurant, where the bar was full of Floridian game fishermen, looking for Ernest Hemingway in the bottom of their Heinekin bottles. There were some black and white photos on the walls from the sixties, of enormous marlin flanked by the triumphant fisherman and his other trophy, the long-legged wife in short shorts and matching mules.

The timing of our trip down the Exumas is tied to weather and tides: the tidal range is only a metre, but it creates fierce currents through the passes between the cays, so passages have to be planned to coincide with slack water.

Hence, we left Chub Cay in the almost-still-dark. Dark enough that we nearly hit the sea wall of the marina on the way out… So much for ‘eyeballing’ the route!

The previous afternoon, Mick managed to acquire a dozen crayfish tails for US$70 from a local fisherman in Chub Cay: the dude was sorting through a tall bucket full of tails, about half of which appeared to be undersized.

And so, as we motor across what feels like the centre-page spread of the Bahamas tourism brochure, we fire up the Webber, I knock up a cheeky little lime butter dressing and we gorge on mouth-watering fresh crayfish: jus gettin’ in de swing of t’ings, mon.

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A Short Sojourn in Sydney and Sussex

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Sydney sojourn-8340We left Sel Citron tucked into a marina berth in Gulf Harbour, New Zealand in early February and headed back to Sydney, ostensibly en route to Fort Lauderdale, but also to catch up with friends, family… and so that Damian could get a nose job.

He was thinking something pert and upturned, but the doctor wasn’t up for it. In fact, it was more about function than form: he has had a deviated septum forever, which causes him all sorts of trouble – like, he can’t breathe. He’s been putting off the op for a couple of years, but it was time…

So he had the op – and it all went well – and he went into hibernation for a week as he felt too crappy to see anyone (thanks, Tanya and Mick, for the offer of a recuperation ‘cave’ and apologies to everyone he didn’t get to see!) while I ran around seeing everyone I could and spending some time with my family (thanks Hunters for use of your front room!).

Damian’s Dad lives in West Sussex and turns 80 in June. It’s not likely he’ll be able to get out to Sel Citron, so as a surprise, Damian flew to the UK and turned up in time for dinner. He then took Rob (his Dad) on a boys’ road trip to the south of France, to the Catana factory, where Sel Citron was built. They were able to look over a sister ship to Sel Citron (only 18 were built, so it was a fortunate coincidence that one was there on the dock) and see the new Catana 59 and do a factory tour.

They had a great time and, while in England, Damian also got to spend time with the rest of his family and to meet his new nephew, Harry, who was born in January. (Congratulations Bex and Karl!).

He then flew on to Florida and spent a weekend with his old work mate, Gary and his wife, Lynie.

Meanwhile, I did my own, solo road trip up to Queensland, arriving in time for floods – and a touch of déjà vu – to go and play with my cuzzy-bros and besties up there – thanks to Lee and Bill; Al and Ian; Nod and Ray and my ‘children’; Chrissie and Pete; Jules and Angelika; the Downey clan; and Max and Judie for putting me up and putting up with me!

I drove back to SYD for a last few frenzied days (thanks Pete and Gwyn, and Elaine, hostess with the mostess, for my sleepovers) then jumped on a plane and met Damian in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for the next adventure…

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Tackling the Tongariro Alpine Crossing

Fairway Bay, Gulf Harbour

By: Kerry

Tongariro Crossing1-4480Hiking (or ‘tramping’) in New Zealand is primarily associated with the famous trails of the South Island. But right in the centre of the North Island, three hours drive south of Auckland, is a region of active volcanoes that provides the dramatic setting for New Zealand’s best one-day hike: the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

The rocky and often steep track traverses active volcanic craters, rises to nearly 2000 metres and skirts surreally-hued crater lakes that shimmer with steam – and freeze over in winter.  The alpine weather can change in minutes from brilliant sunshine to icy sleet and there are no supplies available en route. It can be completed in a day, but Lonely Planet describes it as ‘exhausting’.

We drove down from Auckland and met up with the Kiapas and Maunies in the little village of National Park, where we’d booked a cottage for three nights to give us some flexibility with the weather: you really don’t want to tackle Tongariro in crappy weather.

The Tongariro National Park encompasses three active volcanoes that lie along the string of volcanoes ridging the North Island’s Central Plateau. The highest is Mt Ruapehu, at 2797 metres. On our first morning, Ruapehu was invisible in thick cloud: with a better forecast for the following day, we went mountain biking rather than hike the Crossing in freezing fog.

There’s no cost to do the walk – the trail, boardwalks, signage and amenities are immaculately maintained by the Department of Conservation – which in part explains why up to 1000 people hike the trail each day.

We were keen to get a jump on the crowds – most of whom are reliant on a public transfer from town. The guy from the bike shop gave us the tip: be on the trail by dawn. The only way to do that is with your own vehicle. So we’d parked one car at the end of the trail the previous night, and drove to the start of the trail in pre-dawn chill. It worked though: we were the first out of the blocks.

The track starts at 1100 metres above sea level and soon starts winding upwards, following the Mangatepopo Valley. We were in deep, cold shade, trekking in beanies, gloves and thermals – but it wasn’t long before we were peeling off the layers.

Tongariro Crossing-4497Despite the dire danger warnings posted everywhere from the park signboards to the Lonely Planet guide book urging trampers to check they are properly prepared for this challenging walk (make sure you have enough water, stout walking boots, thermals, wet weather gear and adequate fitness), we were soon being overtaken by a motley collection of backpackers doing the walk seemingly woefully under-prepared.

Lucky for everyone, the weather was perfect: with glorious sunshine and no wind, as the day wore on, the exposure threat was more from heat stroke than hypothermia.

From the top of the first climb, there are endless views to the south, including of volcanic Mt Taranaki. It’s then a flat, exposed stretch through the broad glacial basin known as the South Crater. The only obvious sign of life is the sparse clumps of tussock grasses scrabbling a living between monster blocks of rock that erupted – possibly recently – from the volcanoes flanking the valley.

The very recent and reasonably violent volcanic activity in the Park adds a unique frisson to the walk. Mt Ruapehu erupted in 1995, 1996 and again in 2007. Tongariro erupted as recently as 2012, vaulting 20,000 volcanic ‘bombs’ into the sky, one of which – a large boulder – smashed through the roof of the Ketetahi hut, used by hikers as an overnight stop on the trail. Signs and signal lights all along the trail warn that the entire area remains “in a heightened state of unrest and eruptions can occur at any time”.

We walked past Mt Ngauruhoe, which featured as Mt Doom in the Lord of the Rings movies. It didn’t exist at all until about 7000 years ago and last erupted in 1975. We opted out of the optional side trip to climb its scree-covered slopes to the summit at 2287m…

From the South Crater, the track winds upwards, skirting Mt Tongariro (another potential side trip, to the summit at 1967m) to the high point of the Crossing at Red Crater, at 1886 metres.

As I panted up the final approach, a skinny German backpacker in baggy t-shirt, shorts and Converse sneakers came towards me, walking in the opposite direction against the flow of trekkers, playing a ukulele and singing, sotto voce, the Johnny Cash anthem, “Burning Ring of Fire”.

How appropriate.

The Red Crater is around 10,000 years old with a hollow lava tube (aka a dike) in its middle that has a remarkably ‘labial’ look about it (thanks, Lionel, for pointing that out – once you see it, you can’t forget it).

The views to the other side take in the absurdly lurid Emerald Lakes – explosion craters that have filled with mineral-laden water – set like cabochons of turquoise in the red-brown landscape, and volcanic vents and fumeroles sending up plumes of steam. From the saddle, the trail descends steeply down a slippery scree slope that has just about everyone landing on their bum at some point, to the shores of the Emerald lakes.

We stopped for lunch in the lee of a huge boulder on the edge of an elyptical lake that looked like it had been painted in the pure hues of the printer’s palette: cyan water, magenta grasses around the edges, and sulphurous yellow and black rocks looming over it and mirrored in its surface.

Even though the sun was shining, the altitude made it too cold to stop for long and we headed off towards the Blue Crater. Looking back along the track from the rim gives a wide-angle view of the broad black lava floes, red oxide-stained volcanic cones and the barren, chocolate-coloured scree slopes we’d negotiated throughout the morning.

Just beyond the crater lake, we had our first views to the north, all the way to Lake Taupo, before the track began to zig zag down in an extraordinary series of broad switchbacks that make things very easy on the knees – it became suddenly evident why it’s recommended to walk in the direction we’d taken. It would be punishingly demoralising to start the walk in the other direction and spend hours walking up the hill.

We wound our way down through scrub and bushland and native forest and emerged at the car park.

They say the trail takes six to eight hours. We did it in nine and a half, but we took it easy, and had lots of snack and photo stops. Rather pleasingly, we pulled up pretty well – not even a blister or a sore muscle!

Nevertheless, we felt very relieved (and ever so slightly smug, as we passed pooped trekkers waiting for their transfers) that we could pile into the crew car and head off (still in our hiking gear) for high tea at the Whakapapa Chateau.

So very civilised, Dahling!

PS> Damian took some great photos on the day – see the album of his photos on the Images page.

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