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I'm usually one for travel as a relaxing experience, not an exercise in Nietzchean discipline - "what doesn't kill you", etc, etc. So my decision to walk Fiordland's Hollyford Track in February was somewhat out of character, based on a fairly misguided sense to have one of those "out of my comfort zone" - type of experiences.
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On the side of the Hollyford Valley track is an immense rimu that was a seedling 1000 years ago when no humans had ever walked this waterlogged way.
The massive tree is in turn home to an ancient rata, whose multi-pronged branches spread around the rimu's trunk like huge arthritic fingers. Eventually, when we have long turned to dust, the rata will strangle its host and feed off its bulk as it breaks down over a century or more.
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The Hollyford Track is wet and wild and lacks the traffic of Milford Sound. Jenny Tabakoff tramps it, knee-deep.
The south-west corner of New Zealand's South Island gives you a new appreciation of green. It's here in all its shades: the green beards of goblin moss overhead are subtly different from the green carpets of sphagnum moss and all the others in between.
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Fiordland sunshine? Down in this neck of the woods it's known as rain. And true to form, as soon as I set foot in Fiordland, it was buffeted by a cold southerly that dumped fresh snow on the mountain peaks and rain on the walking tracks!
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Diversity is one of the main drawcards of Fiordland’s Hollyford Track. Beginning at the base of the sheer rock walls of the Darran Mountains, the low-altitude track winds its way through ancient native rainforest alongside the Hollyford River as it journeys out to the Tasman Sea — linking snow-capped mountains, glaciers, rainforests, rivers, lakes, waterfalls, sand-dunes and wild, West Coast surf.
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The legend of Davey Gunn was inspiring, but with Richard Tulloch preferred to expereince the beauty of New Zealand's Fiordland with some creature comforts.
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