Kayaking Milford Sound (in Striped Pajamas)

The water was deepest blackish-blue and glassy when we set off in our kayaks. I took the rear seat while my friend Amanda sat in front. It was her first time in a kayak and I thought she’d like the unobstructed view.

Huge mountains jutted straight out of the water on all sounds, their snow-capped peaks veiled in mist. The water was dark and still, as if it were still sleeping. Two channels in the distance indicated there was more to explore beyond those great stone monoliths but since the mountains hide the ocean, it felt incredibly secluded. I tried to imagine what early British explorers must have felt when they came upon this majestic place.

Welcome to Milford Sound, on the west coast of New Zealand’s South Island. The sound is accessible via a multi-day hike on the Milford Track, by boat or charter plane, and by just one, winding road. As beautiful as it is, it should be a bustling tourist location, crowded with swimmers and boats pulling water skiers, but its remote location in Fiordland National Park has kept it relatively free from hordes of holiday pleasure-seekers. The paucity of people just adds to the feeling that you might be the last people alive on earth.

We had arrived at the kayak launch point just after 7 a.m., shivering slightly in the early-morning air. The sun was barely visible and thick clouds still hung in the sky. Our lodgings the night before could best be described as basic: a backpackers’ lodge with a community bathroom/shower room (one for boys, one for girls), tiny rooms, and no frills whatsoever. It’s about as close to camping as I get. This barebones accommodation, however—the only lodging anywhere near the sound that didn’t involve a tent—was a worthwhile tradeoff for the majesty we were about to experience.

Our kayaking guide, Gonzo, who hailed from Montana, handed out our gear, which included a set of woolly, striped long underwear for everyone. We put these on over our bathing suits, followed by a fleece on top, then a rubbery kayak skirt that would keep out the water, a yellow water-proof jacket, and finally, a life jacket.

Oh how glamorous we all look in those striped long Johns and skirts!

The clouds kept moving and changing over the course of the morning. We paddled down one side, hugging the coast as much as possible; then across in a line under Gonzo’s watchful eye, like ducks crossing a busy street, so we wouldn’t get hit by a boat; then up the other side towards the shore. We stopped periodically to regroup, take photos, have a snack, or listen to Gonzo’s factoids about our surroundings. The peaks, we learned, were upwards of 5,000 feet tall (hence the snow on top), although they didn’t look it because they jutted straight up out of the water, rather than inclining gradually to that height. Amanda called the sheer rock faces the Cliffs of Insanity (from The Princess Bride)—an apt description given their dizzying height.

In fact, the scale of the entire place was deceiving. For as much as we paddled, the big peak in the distance in front of us never seemed to get any closer. I spotted white specks at its base that proved to be not birds or even small fishing boats but large yachts cruising from the channel towards the shore from which we’d launched. If huge yachts could look like mere specks, how big must that mountain really be?

We spotted fur seals swimming and sunning themselves on rocks and paddled as close as we could to a waterfall tumbling down hundreds of feet into a shallow pool. I stared and stared at our surroundings, trying to etch them forever in my memory.The excursion was over too quickly, though it had occupied the better part of our morning. Amanda and I wiggled our kayak onto the sand and I pulled the loop to release the spray skirt, letting in a welcome rush of air around my wool-clad legs. Reluctantly, I turned in my paddle. Not reluctantly, I peeled off the long underwear and other gear. A small plane touched down on the landing strip to one side of us. I turned to gaze again at the sound before getting onto the tour bus. Most of the mist had lifted, though wispy clouds still caressed the mountain peaks. I knew my arms would be sore tomorrow from all that paddling. Drink it in, I told myself. I drank it in.